


Invitation to Fate

by twobirdsonesong



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Complete, Eventual Romance, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nice Peter, Pack Dynamics, Rebuilt Hale House, Runes, Slow Build, Stiles Helps Derek, Stiles and Derek are idiots, Stiles needs books, Tarot, Witches, and Derek has a library, so it all works out, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's summer break in Beacon Hills and Stiles stumbles across a peculiar little shop he's never seen before, run by a mysterious woman who give him a deck of tarot cards, but he doesn't know how to decipher what the cards are telling him.  All the while, hikers are going missing from the trails and Derek and the pack are struggling to find out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lace and Paper Flowers

It happens because Stiles is bored and curious.  He prefers inquisitive, because it has a far less negative connotation than curious.  Or nosy.  Or meddlesome.  But the outcome is still the same.  He’s restless.  And that’s bad.  Because he knows what happens when his whole body starts itching for something to do.  And it’s really nothing good.

 

It’s a week into summer vacation – his last summer vacation – and Stiles has already run out of things to do.  He spent the first day alternating between sleeping and watching Netflix.  On the second day he didn’t get out of bed until his dad came home from the station, although he does research the history of post-modern literature, so it’s not like the day was _completely_ unproductive.  The third day he went running with the pack even though it wasn’t the full moon, but the pack was excited about the start of summer vacation and Stiles needed to stretch his legs.  The next day he spent cleaning his room because it was starting to smell despite the open window, even to him, and then he went ahead and cleaned the entire house because his dad works really hard and he deserves a vacuumed carpet.

 

And now it’s been a week since the last school bell rang for the year and Stiles is _bored_.  He wants to go out and _do something_ , see his friends, just hang and be something like a normal teenager.  But Scott is having “family time” with his mom and Isaac, and Lydia went to London for a month.  He really has no interest in calling up Allison for target practice, or knife throwing, or whatever she considers “hanging out,” and he really doesn’t care for the twins, even though things have gotten better between them since the whole _ordeal_ the year before.  (Not that Stiles isn’t still angry about all that, he _is_.)

 

And that sort of just leaves Derek.

 

Stiles stops spinning in his desk chair and stares at his phone, which is sitting on his bed, where he’d tossed it earlier.  Stiles leans his forward with his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers.  He _could_ call Derek to hang out or something.  It’s a thing they do now.  Sometimes.  Well, it’s more like they’re in the same room at the same time during pack meetings because the meetings are still at Derek’s loft while he finishes rebuilding the Hale house.

 

And sometimes Derek sits in the chair closest to the end of the ridiculous blue couch Stiles is perched on.  And _sometimes_ Stiles is the last to leave because he sticks around to help Derek clean up everyone else’s filthy messes because he’s a nice guy like that and Derek doesn’t deserve to be left with a trashed home just because the others never learned any proper manners from their parents.  (It’s probably a low blow considering the fucked up families his friends all seem to come from.  Except for Lydia, but she hardly even leaves a mess behind so it’s not like it counts.)

 

Stiles snatches his phone and thumbs through his texts.  There’s nothing new from Scott, which is kind of annoying, and of course no word from anyone else.  He has a few old texts from Derek – mostly taciturn messages telling him what time to come to the loft for meetings.  And once reminding him to pick up food for said meeting.  But a few of the messages are more conversational, as conversational as Derek ever is.  Stiles scrolls through the messages and finds himself grinning at his phone.

 

**_If you want to run around naked in the moonlight that’s your business._ **

**_But think of the neighbors._ **

**_And your father._ **

 

He’d been unable to sleep one night during finals.  Actually it had been three nights in a row, and by the time 3am on the third night rolled around he’d ended up texting Derek the most random thoughts about how awesome it must be to be a werewolf.  How incredible it must feel to shift into the wolf and go loping through the dark woods, bare paws in the soil, wind ruffling through a thick coat.  Derek hadn’t responded for long minutes and Stiles had begun to assume that he was either asleep or ignoring him, but then his phone had buzzed with incoming messages.  Stiles had laughed and then messaged back a smiley face before finally falling asleep.

 

So maybe things have gotten a little less tense between them, a little less standoffish.  It’s not like they’re best friends who tell each other everything and confess their deepest secrets in the dark of the night.  Although Derek has been slowly opening up more to Stiles, little by little.  Sharing a few things about his family.  His childhood.  And maybe once Stiles fell asleep on Derek’s couch after a pack meeting and work up in the morning with a blanket draped over him and a pot of coffee waiting for him in the kitchen.  Or maybe it’s three or four times.  No more than six.  He’s not keeping count.  It’s not his fault Derek feeds them well these days, or that his loft actually gets really warm when it’s full of werewolves, and it’s too easy for Stiles to fall asleep to the probably disturbingly comforting sound of Derek conversing with Scott about things they would have argued viciously about a year ago.  But things change.

 

Even so, Stiles doesn’t think he should just randomly call up Derek and ask him if he wants to go get a burger or something, or wander around the preserve for a couple of hours just to blow off the energy that’s steadily building up inside of Stiles.  The man probably has more important things he wants to do than waste time with some teenager.

 

And that just leaves an alone day for Stiles.  Sighing, he pushes out of his chair and grabs his shoes.

 

“Keys, wallet, phone,” Stiles mutters to himself, patting down his pockets to be sure he has everything.  His dad is at the station and Stiles leaves a note on the fridge for him in case the Sheriff gets home before he gets back from wherever he ends up.

  
Stiles decides to walk into town instead of taking his jeep.  It’s kind of a long way, but he’s got the time, and the distance will help him burn off his energy.  Besides, he likes to take stock of the town.  When he isn’t been chased down by any number of murderous rampaging creatures, Beacon Hill is actually quite nice.  He wanders down the old familiar streets, turning this way and that, passing by long-remembered storefronts, until something catches his eye.

 

The shop in front of him is new.  Or maybe it isn’t.  Maybe it’s been there forever and Stiles has just never noticed it before.  It wouldn’t be the first time something slipped past him.  It’s wedged inconspicuously between two other shops, almost like it bullied its way in there.  In the dusty windows are displays of faded old books, various trinkets and charms that glitter in the fractured light coming from the sun, and little delicate looking boxes that Stiles can only guess at the contents of.  There’s no sign declaring a name, but Stiles is well and truly intrigued.  The front door is unlocked and Stiles steps across the threshhold.

 

Immediately, the sound of the outside world gets cut off and he’s left with silence.  Inside it smells of sandalwood and lavender and something else he can’t place.  He’s sure Derek’s wolfy nose could tell him exactly what it is.  It’s dim and dusty and feels older than it probably is.

 

But beneath the silence, Stiles feels…something else in the air.  It’s a subtle hum.  Like electricity.  Like power.  Stiles thinks the smell is magic.  He closes his eyes, concentrates, and there it is.  He can feel his spark flickering deep down inside of him, answering the light hum of power that seems to come from everything in the shop.

 

Stiles opens his eyes and looks around.  The shop resembles an old apothecary more than anything.  On one side, the wall is lined with shelves bearing glass jars containing dried herbs and spices.  The lower shelves have packages of teas.  The center of the room is filled with little tables of wares – playing cards, jars, little teacups.  One table holds a selection of honest-to-god crystal balls and Stiles suddenly feels like he’s in a strange magic shop and he’s kind of waiting to find a hat he could pull a rabbit out of.  He assumes they’re all for sale, except he doesn’t see any price tags.

 

But it’s the other side of the store that draws his attention.  Across the floor there are shelves holding various decks of what Stiles thinks are tarot cards.  Some are small, meant to be carried around in a pocket or a purse.  Others are much larger – bigger than a hand – and seemingly designed as coffee-table props.  Stiles spies a deck that looks delicately hand painted with a shiny gold inlay and wonders how much something like that might cost.   He leans in closer to the cards, his fingers itching to touch them.

 

“Interested in your future, child?”  A voice suddenly asks.

  
Stiles startles, squawking in shock, limbs flailing, and almost knocking several delicate looking glass vials off the shelves.  He turns around, heart pounding rapidly.

  
Standing silent at his shoulder (and he should really be used to that by now, but he’s not) is a tiny, willowy woman wearing a simple black dress.  She has long graying hair and blue eyes.  No.  Stiles blinks.  That’s not quite right.  The woman has one blue eye and one brown.  Stiles stares, mouth dropping open in unabashed interest.

 

“Heterochromia,” Stiles says, instead of _hello_ , or _who are you_ , or _holy_ _shit you almost gave me a fucking heart attack_.

 

The woman gazes up at him with a still, calculating expression. “A curse, actually.”

 

“Oh.  Yeah.  I’ve been on the receiving end of those.  Hurts like a bitch, don’t they?”  Stiles winces and shifts, remembering the concussive force that broke three of his ribs not seven months ago.  The blast would have killed him if Derek hadn’t thrown himself at Stiles and knocked him out of the way of the full brunt of the curse.  As it was, it took Derek half a day to walk again and Stiles six weeks to knit his bones back together.

 

“What’d yours do to you?”  Stiles asks, as curious about that as anything else in the world.

 

The woman blinks slowly, tilting her head ever so slightly as she regards him.  Stiles feels the weight of her gaze in the pit of his stomach.  It feels a bit like she’s found a way inside him and is poking around.

 

“Changed the color of my eye.”  She rests three fingers lightly on her cheek. Her voice is a honey smooth and melodic.

 

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad.”  Stiles thinks about the month he spent with his ribs wrapped just so and his breath painful.  The werewolves had taken turns leeching the hurt from him, but the whole ordeal still sucked.

 

(So maybe it didn’t totally suck to have Derek sitting at his bedside with one huge hand resting lightly on Stiles bare forearm.  Even on pain medication Stiles had acutely felt every millimeter where their skin met.  He’d felt it down to his healing bones the heat of Derek’s palm and the weight of each finger.  It hadn’t really sucked at all, even if Derek had spent the hour with a book in his other hand and his eyes focused on the page.)

 

“Oh, Stiles.”  She clucks her tongue at him.  “That’s the _least_ of what happened to me.”

  
Stiles swallows.  His heart is starting to crawl up into his throat.  “How do you know my name?”

 

“You’re the Sheriff’s boy.  I pay attention to the world.”

 

Stiles is _not_ afraid, he’s not nervous.  But there’s something about the woman in front of him that’s pinging on his senses.   He’s spent enough time fighting for his life that he’s learned to catalogue danger, in whatever form it might come in.  He takes quick stock of the woman.

 

Her face is lovely, but vague, as though her features could be anyone’s and no one’s at all.  She seems older, with her grey hair and dated clothes, but Stiles can’t begin to place her age.  She is, at once, twenty-five and fifty-two.  Her voice is sweet, kind, and completely without accent.  And her eyes.  Stiles looks into the blue eye and then the brown and he isn’t sure who he’s seeing.

 

“I pay attention.”

 

She clucks her tongue at him.  “Not nearly as well as you think.  I’ll ask you again, Stiles.  What brings you to my little shop?”  She moves slowly around him and Stiles thinks he feels the ghost of a touch across his upper back.  “I see you looking at my tarot cards.  Are you looking for answers about your future?”  She reaches for the shelf and rests three fingers on a deck of cards.

 

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to die sometime before I actually make it to college so…my future isn’t really too much of a concern for me right now.”

  
Stiles tries not to the think too much about it, the inevitability of his premature demise.  But most of his friends are extraordinarily hard to kill and Danny is just too pretty to die.  That leaves Stiles and he’s already been broken.  The next step isn’t that big of a leap.

 

The others are making plans though, expecting to follow through with them.  Applying to colleges.  Rebuilding a home.  At this point Stiles just want to make it past graduation.

 

“Then perhaps your fortune.”

 

Stiles shrugs.  “My dad’s the sheriff.  We’re doing fine.”  Bills have never been one of their problems, thankfully.

 

“Then what?”  The woman comes back around the other side of him and Stiles can feel the brush of her dress against his calves.  “What is it that brought you to me?”

 

“I was bored.  I saw your store.  Which, by the way – how long have you been here?  I’ve never seen this place before.  And I’ve lived here my whole life.  I know this town.”

 

“I’ve been here as long as I’ve been here,” she responds, cryptically.

 

“Way to not answer the question, but thanks for not turning it into a riddle.  I don’t have the best luck with riddles.”

 

“Stiles.”  Her voice is suddenly sharper and it tugs Stiles back to focus.

 

“Yes?”

 

“What brought you to me?”

 

Stiles thinks about how he was walking down the street and how the storefront caught his attention.  He can only say that it’s curiosity.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Is it love?”

 

Stiles goes still.  He looks down and realizes he’s picked up one of the desks of tarot cards and has been flipping it between his fingers.

 

“You’re drawn to the cards,” the woman continues, watching him.

 

“I guess.” He puts the cards back down.

 

“Do you know the history of tarot?”

 

“Fortune telling?”

 

“The cards themselves can be traced back to the 15th century, but we believe the symbols have been around for much, much longer.”

 

“People used to play games with them,” Stiles muses.

 

“So you do know about them.”

 

“A little.  I had a history assignment in the 7th grade on the British response to the beginnings of the American Revolution and ended up including some highly detailed footnotes about the Roma culture.”

 

“You understand the importance of symbols don’t you, Stiles?”  The woman’s slender finger draws along the top of the table and Stiles swears he sees a pattern of three interlocked swirls.  He swallows.

 

“I guess I need to study up.”

 

The woman pushes the cards along the shelf towards him.  “Take the deck,” she says.

 

“Oh, uh.  Sure.  Yeah.  Why not?”  Stiles starts to dig into his pocket for his wallet.  He hadn’t planned on getting anything, but he’s taken up enough of this woman’s day already that he feels sort of awkward _not_ buying anything from her.  She’s got a business to run after all.

 

“Take it,” she repeats.

 

“No, here.  Let me pay for it.  Sheriff’s son, you know.  Stealing and all.”  Stiles flashes her a grin and his taken aback by the intensity in her eyes.

 

“Take the deck, Stiles.”  Her voice seems to fill the store.

 

Stiles’ hands still.  “Okay,” he says slowly.  He can be a little impulsive, but he’s not stupid.  He knows there are people out to kill just because he runs with Derek.  And Scott.  They keep trying and he keeps getting away, but not because of sheer dumb luck.  He survives because he’s learning how to.

 

He’s not a full-fledged mage or wizard or whatever people want to call it, not yet.  Not even close.  That takes more time than he’s got at the moment.  Between school and the pack and his father and all the things out there that are actively trying to kill him, he doesn’t have much time leftover for magic.  But he’s learning how to use his spark, little by little.  Deaton’s taught him a few tricks, one being how to sense the presence of another’s magic.  But he has to concentrate and focus – unless there’s a lot of magic, then he can feel it permeating.  Like when he first walked into the store – that hum of energy, of power – that seemed to be coming from everywhere.

 

Stiles takes a slow breath and looks down inside of himself, searching for the spark.  It flares warm in his center.  The lingering feeling of magic is still there, all around the store, but a few spots burn brighter.  The chain around the woman’s neck and the pendant hidden under her dress.  A book somewhere in the back of the shop.  A ring that's behind a glass case.

 

But the tarot deck gives off nothing.  Stiles exhales in relief.

  
“Clever boy,” the woman says and there’s a note of respect in her voice.  It’s not far off of the way Derek sometimes sounds when Stiles gets something right.

 

“Sorry, I just-”

 

“The Sherriff’s son should be ever cautious.”  The woman takes his hand and places the tarot deck in his palm.  “Take the cards,” she insists, and Stiles knows he won’t be saying no.

  
“Uhm, thank you.” He shoves the cards into his pocket and turns to leave, but stops.  “Hey, you never told me your name.”

 

“It’s Sabina.”

 

“Well, thank for the cards, Sabina.”  Stiles repeats, nodding at her and finally turning to leave.

 

“I hope you use them well,” she says to his retreating back.

 

The world rises back to life when the door to the shop closes behind Stiles.  Everything is bright and warm and loud in comparison to the dusty quiet of the store.  Stiles looks back over his shoulder at the door, half expecting it to be gone when he does.  But the stop is there still.  Stiles shrugs and then turns to continue walking down the street just as he had been before he’d been sidetracked by the curious little store.

 

***

 

When Stiles finally get home (after grabbing some lunch, of course), he sets the cards down on his cluttered desk.

 

They don’t come with any instructions, but he doesn’t think it can be that hard.  Stiles opens the box.  The cards inside are older than the cheap box they came in would indicate.  The paper is thick and smooth between his fingers, almost worn.  They don’t stick together the way brand new playing cards do.  It’s as though they’ve been used before and used well.

  
Stiles bites his lip and shuffles the deck between his fingers once, twice, and then a third time.  He doesn’t know why he shuffles three times, except that it feels right.  He sets the deck down in front of him and stares at it.  It’s just a deck of cards.  Nothing dangerous about them at all.  Except Stiles isn’t so stupid as to believe that even for a second.

 

He reaches out and draws the top card, slowly turning it over and setting it down face up.

 

The image drawn on the front is of a young man in ragged clothes carrying a bundle containing his worldly possessions in one hand and a red rose in the other.  His upturned chin is lifted and he doesn’t seem to see the edge of the cliff he’s walking towards.  The inscription on the bottom reads: The Fool.

 

Stiles snorts, wrinkles his nose, and then frowns.  “Hey…” He mutters to himself.

 

And then he opens up his trusted laptop.  He spends the next six hours researching the history of tarot cards and the different kinds of decks.  Some of it he’d already known from his 7th grade tangent – mostly about tarot cards being used for game playing before they became attached to divination and fortune telling.  But there are other pieces – ties to ancient Egypt and the Book of Thoth, and Hermetic Qabalah – that have him clicking on links that lead him to almost nowhere helpful.

  
The problem is that so much of the information that’s out there and the easiest to find is new age bullshit and it’s not what he wants.  He wants the truth, whatever that may be.  He has these cards now; he wants to know what they’re all about.  The symbols of the cards – the cups, the pentacles, the swords, and the wands – are old, he knows that much.  He knows they had to have come from somewhere.  And if Stiles has learned anything from running with his wolves (and really he’s learned a lot), it’s that symbols are important.

 

Stiles knows he needs better information.  He needs books.  It used to be that he went to Allison’s dad for the best books, or even Deaton.  Except Chris Argent always gives him this steely-eyed look like he thinks Stiles is up to something.  And Deaton doesn’t always like to let Stiles take his books home.  But over the last several months Stiles has realized that it’s Derek who has the tomes and compendiums that he wants to look through.  No matter how random or esoteric the topic, Derek has _something_ for him.  And he lets Stiles take them for however long he needs.  Stiles has no idea where Derek keeps pulling the books from, but he’s not going to look a gift wolf in the tooth.

 

He checks the time.  It’s almost midnight.  He looks at the deck of tarot cards in front of him and his fingers tap against his thigh.  Stiles grabs his phone and fires off a quick text to Derek before he can talk himself out of it.

 

_You wouldn’t happen to have any books on the origins of tarot cards would you?_

 

Stiles spins the phone in his hands a few times, waiting.  It’s a crapshoot with Derek.  Sometimes he responds so quickly Stiles thinks he could hear him typing from five miles away.  Other times it takes a day for him to even acknowledge the text.  Although lately Derek’s been getting better about it, so Stiles really can’t complain.

 

The phone buzzes in his hands, almost causing him to drop it in surprise.

 

**_Tomorrow_ **

 

Stiles grins.  They’re having a pack meeting to discuss…something tomorrow.   He’s pretty sure half the “meetings” are just excuses to hang out together in Derek’s loft and over eat and watch shitty movies before stumbling home in a food and laughter induced stupor.  Not that he’s complaining.  He loves to do all those things.

 

Getting some new books to read and study is really just an added bonus.


	2. Back to the Floor

Stiles is the first to arrive at Derek’s the next day.  The pack meetings are usually around dinner and Stiles knows better than to show up much before the designated time.  Once he got there three hours early because he had something he wanted to show Derek that he’d dug up about pixies, only to discover that Derek wasn’t home.  And that he wouldn’t be home for at least an hour and a half.  Stiles had been forced to wait in his jeep outside of Derek’s loft playing games on his phone and trying not to draw too much attention from Derek’s neighbors, who were already fairly suspicious of the guy who lived next door and had a random assortment of teenagers coming and going at all hours of the day and night.  Not to mention the rave that happened that one time.

 

But he’s excited about getting his hands on whatever delicious books Derek has waiting for him and doesn’t care that he’s early.

 

Stiles had drawn another card that morning – the 8 of Wands – and a quick Google search told him it was a card of action.  Stiles has chosen to interpret that as a sign that it would be okay if he got to Derek’s a little before (or well before) the usual time.  Stiles really wishes the tarot deck had come with instructions.

 

The lights are on when he pulls up in front of Derek’s big, grey building and Stiles takes that as another good sign.  He hates how creepy the place actually is – the creaking elevator, the dark hallways.  And it’s not like this place doesn’t have more than it’s fair share of bad memories.  As he approaches the huge door to Derek’s loft, Stiles thinks about how much he can’t wait for Derek to finally move out of this place and into his house.  Not that there aren’t good memories – there are.  He has very fond memories of piling on the couch with his friend and rough housing with the wolves on the floor (he knows they’re gentle with him and he fucking appreciates it because it takes time for his bones to mend when broken).  And he smiles when he thinks about the late nights pouring over maps and data with Lydia and Derek and even Peter, looking for clues about whatever big bad they’re trying track down that week.

 

And of course there are the times when it’s just him and Derek left in the loft.  And Derek forgets that he’s…whatever it is he tries to be and lets himself talk to Stiles.  Really talk to him.  Stiles would never say that they bare their souls to each other, but sometimes Derek will let things about his family slip through his guard.  Things about his mom and Laura – what she was like and how she used to tease him abut his front teeth (something Stiles _refuses_ to comment on because Derek has already threatened to bite him on numerous occasions and he really doesn’t need for it to happen again, especially since he really doesn’t need Derek to hear the rapid uptick in his heartbeat that happens these days at the thought of Derek’s mouth anywhere near his neck).

  
Stiles shakes his head and then he shakes his hands out, which he’s unknowingly clenched into fists.  There’s no point in being stupid about this right now.  Things are getting better and better between them.  They are what they are.  That’s it.  He takes a calming breath.

 

The door is unlocked, which means he can go ahead and open it.  He’d long decided that since the werewolves kept coming into his room through an unlocked window he gets to enter their houses through unlocked doors.  It only really works with Derek, since Chris Argent isn’t too keen on anyone entering his property unannounced and Ms. McCall stopped trying to keep him from sneaking in years and year ago.  Not much excitement there.  But Derek hasn’t argued the point and Stiles keeps letting himself in.

 

When he gets inside, he stops dead in his tracks.  The loft, which was already sparse to begin with, is almost empty.  In fact, it’s barren.  And the sight of it makes Stiles feel like he’s been punched in the gut.

 

Almost everything is gone.  The tables.  Derek’s bed.  The awful blue couch that Derek apparently found in some thrift shop and decided was good enough.  Everything.  All that remains are a few metal folding chairs.  Panic starts to rise up in Stiles’ throat.  If Derek has gone, if he’s left again…

 

“What the fuck?” Stiles says and his voice echoes across the desolate space, shivering in the silence.

 

And then Derek emerges from the bathroom.  “What?”  He grumbles.  He’s wearing Stiles’ favorite green Henley and the bone deep relief at seeing him outweighs the desire to punch him in the face.

 

“What the fuck, dude?” Stiles asks again and Derek just stares at him, as though he can’t possibly imagine what the problem might be.

 

“You’re _not_ leaving again.”  It’s not a question.  He never again wants to hear that Derek has just up and left town without a word.  Or even _with_ a word.

 

Derek’s brow furrows.  “No, I’m not.”

 

“Then where’s all your stuff?”  Stiles waves his arms around.  The fact that there was never much stuff to begin with isn’t the point.

 

“At the house.”  Derek folds his arms across his chest and Stiles does not look at the way his biceps strain the fabric.

 

“You finished the house?”

 

“Well, it’s built.”  Derek shrugs so casually, as though it’s nothing, and Stiles just sort of collapses.

 

“Dude.  Why didn’t you say anything?”  He really does want to punch him.

  
“I was going to.  Tonight.  At the meeting.”

 

Stiles sighs.  “And you couldn’t have said anything earlier?  Like that you were almost done.  I’ve – we’ve been waiting to hear about the house, dude.”

 

Derek’s face twitches in an expression Stiles can’t quite decipher and he sighs.  He’s only gotten to see glimpses of the house over the last year.  Derek’s done most of the work himself, occasionally hiring out contractors for the things he needs help with.  But he’s kept the pack away from the property during the construction.  Like he doesn’t want to anyone to see it incomplete, but Stiles thinks anything would be better than the burnt out shell it had been and the half-destroyed husk it’d become.

 

“And you didn’t even ask for help to pack?”

 

Derek just stares at him and Stiles can hear the “how exactly would you be of help?” loud and clear.

 

“Dude, come on.”  Stiles hates the loft, hates what’s happened here, but he hates even more how Derek still tries to do everything by himself.  “You don’t have to do everything alone,” he says before he can stop himself.  They’re long past the point where he’s afraid that Derek might punch him, but Stiles still worries about Derek’s reactions to some things.

 

Stiles can feel the weight of Derek’s gaze on him, never leaving his face.  He knows Derek is listening to his heartbeat, searching for a blip, looking for something that he can use to dismiss Stiles’ words.  But Stiles knows too he’ll find nothing.

 

“I’m not alone,” Derek eventually says and even Stiles hears the way his heart ticks up.

 

“Oh.  Yeah.  I know.  Of course you’re not.  You’ve got me – and us.  The pack.  All of us.  And we could have helped you move.  As a pack.  That’s what packs do for each other.”

 

Derek presses his lips together and Stiles both hates and loves that expression.  The one that says Derek is amused by whatever is going on but it’s trying to hide it so as to preserve his cool and collected, totally-in-control exterior.

 

“So…when are we having a house warming party for you?”

 

“It’s not finished.  There nothing in the house yet.”

 

“What about your stuff from here?”

 

Derek just shrugs and Stiles’ mouth drops opens.

 

“You just got rid of it all?  Even your bed?  And the couch?”

 

“Everything.”

 

“Oh.”  Stiles feels a strange pang of longing for that disgusting blue couch.  He knows he’s bled on the damn thing a number of times and he’s pretty sure the others have too.  But he’s almost had some of the best nights of sleep he’s ever gotten on that couch.  “So that’s why you didn’t need help moving.”

  
Derek’s mouth twitches and Stiles hears the “Congratulations on figuring it out” that goes unspoken.

 

“All right.  So no house warming party until you’re done redecorating your new wolf-cave.  Can I come see it?”

 

“See what?”  
  
“The house.”

 

“Why?”

 

“…Because?”  Stiles doesn’t think he needs to explain to Derek why he wants to see the house.  He remembers stumbling upon it all those years ago, seeing the desolate burned-out shell of what was once of a magnificent home, filled with laughter and love and a howling song.

 

He wants that again for Derek.  If any of them deserve something new and wonderful, it’s him.

 

“The others are here,” Derek says suddenly, tilting his ear towards the door, and Stiles wants to scream in frustration at his friends’ horrible timing.

 

The door to the loft slides open again and the rest of the pack comes pouring in, minus Lydia, jostling each other’s shoulders and generally causing a ruckus.

 

“Whoa,” Scott says, stopping in his tracks when he finally takes note of his surroundings.

 

“What happened in here?” Allison asks, looking around, taking it in.  The twins are prowling around the empty space and Stiles feels a strange sort of possessiveness that they’re allowed inside the loft at all.

 

“Did you get robbed?”  Isaac’s voice is so tinged with concern that Stiles wants to laugh.

 

Scott takes a few steps around the loft.  “You’re not leaving again, are you?” Where Isaac’s tone was full of worry and confusion, Scott’s is hard and almost accusatory.

 

“No,” Derek replies.

 

“Then-”

 

“He finished rebuilding the house,” Stiles jumps in.  He grins at the dark look Derek shoots him.  It’s not his fault Derek still tries to keep things stupidly secret.  They’re pack.  All of them.  And that means looking out for each other.  And being excited over accomplishments.

 

“You should have said something!” Isaac exclaims.

 

“Yes, nephew.  Shall we go check the old family abode out?”

 

Stiles watches as the pack turns in unison towards the sound of a new voice.  He wrinkles his nose at the sight of Peter standing in the open doorway, looking as smug as always.

 

“Fine,” Derek sighs and the pack whoops.

 

There’s a scramble to get out of the loft and into their respective cars.  Stiles ends up in Derek’s Camero even though his Jeep is parked right outside.  He doesn’t mind though, and actually he kind of prefers it.  Derek drives like he runs – easy and confident – with one hand on the steering wheel and the other curled loose around the gearshift.

 

Derek doesn’t say anything when Stiles gets into the car instead of his Jeep, but Stiles catches Derek looking at him as he buckles his seatbelt.  It’s dark inside the car and Derek’s face is half hidden by sharp shadow, turning his expression unreadable.

 

“What?” Stiles asks, suddenly conscious that he just let himself into Derek’s car without asking.

 

“Nothing.”  Derek throws the car into drive and heads for the house.

 

***

 

Stiles’ jaw drops when they pull up the dirt road to the rebuilt Hale house.  The night is dark and the moon is hanging half full above them, but the headlights of the cars illuminate the clearing enough that Stiles can see.

 

The house is utterly different than the one that used to stand in its place.  It’s huge –

bigger than the one before, clearly meant to hold a large family.  Or a pack.  And it’s beautiful.  It’s made of brick and stone and clapboard siding.  It looks solid and lasting.  Derek has retained the Victorian-style architecture of the original home, complete with sash and bay windows, intricate molding, and a portico on one side.  A covered porch wraps around the first story and Stiles can see two turrets rising up from the second and third levels.  Stiles sees hints of the old house in the shape of the molding and the unique touches along the eaves and the wrought-iron railing of the staircase, but everything else is different.  It’s _Derek’s_ house, not his family’s.

 

Stiles figures that after everything that happened in the old house – all the pain and blood and death – that it was more than time to start anew.

 

“Dude,” Scott says, breaking the silence.  “This is amazing.”

 

“You did a really great job, Derek,” Isaac adds.  The twins are prowling around the property line, but keeping a respectful distance away from the house until Derek makes the first move towards the door.  It’s clear that this is the heart of Derek’s territory, and there are certain rules that must be abided.

 

“It’s lovely,” Allison chimes in and her voice is barely above a whisper.  Stiles sort of wishes she wasn’t there at all, considering her aunt was the reason the house needed to be rebuilt in the first place.  But he doesn’t get to make those calls.  If Derek is willing to put the past in the past, he has to be too.

 

Stiles glances over at Derek, who has his arms folded across his chest as he stares unblinking at the home he built.  He looks fiercely proud and something like contentment just barely creases the corners of his mouth.

 

“You rebuilt from the foundation up,” Stiles says, voice pitched low for only Derek to hear, which is ridiculous considering he’s surrounded by werewolves.  But he doesn’t care.

 

“I dug out the foundation and re-poured it,” Derek responds, voice just as low.  “There was…blood in the concrete.  And ash in the soil.   I needed to get rid of everything that smelled of death and fire.”

  
Stiles swallows.  He still can’t imagine the loss Derek went through.  After his own mom died, it was just him and his dad.  And that was fine.  They survived.  It was hard and of course there were days he didn’t think anything could hurt worse than the empty space in his heart, but they made it through.  They held each other up.  Stiles doesn’t have a big family; he doesn’t know what it’s like to have that kind of support beneath you, and then to have it all ripped away in fire and betrayal.  He can’t fathom the strength of the man standing to next to him to have made it through that.

 

“You know,” Stiles begins.  “If you want, Deaton is teaching me about runes.”  He doesn’t know why he brings it up.  It’s not like he’s very good at it.  So far he’s been able to put out the fire of a candle with a symbol drawn in the melted wax, but he’s been reading about what else he could do, given the practice.  But something in his gut wants to try, for Derek.  The pack works so hard to protect him – the human who runs with wolves.  It’s the least he can offer in return.  And maybe he wants Derek to acknowledge how useful he can be too.  Maybe.

 

“I can try to, I don’t know, add a little protective mojo to the place.”  Stiles spreads his hands out in front of him and waggles his fingers, grinning.  But his smile falters when Derek turns towards him.

  
Derek’s gaze is sharp and intense.  His eyes are shadowed but Stiles swears he sees a flash of blue.

 

“That’s tricky business, you know,” Peter says, emerging from the darkness the way he always tends to.  Stiles prides himself on _not_ jumping in surprise.

 

“Those kinds of enchantments requires the full consent of the owner to provide the most protections,” Peter continues, his voice silky and knowing.  “Without full consent, the spell is weak, easily breakable.  That’s a hard thing to give over – that kind of all encompassing trust.  But it’s a powerful thing when given.  A deeper kind of magic than you can even understand.”

 

“Peter,” Derek growls and Stiles shivers even though it’s summer. He doesn’t miss the way Peter’s too-knowing eyes flick between him and Derek.  His heartbeat must be audible to the entire pack.

 

“And for werewolves…” Peter crouches low to the ground and slowly draws the triskelion in the dirt.  “Well, you can imagine how difficult it is for us.”

 

“Why?” Stiles asks.

 

Peter looks up at him and Stiles feels the weight of that gaze in his gut.  “Because you’d be putting a bit of yourself irrevocably into the very fabric of Derek’s territory, his life.  A wolf’s home isn’t just his _home_ , it’s the very heart of his life.  It’s the beginning and the end, the true source of his power. Somewhere in the house is the hearthstone.  It’s the center of everything.  And you would become a part of it.  If Derek consents.”

 

“Peter,” Derek growls again and the warning is loud and clear.

  
Stiles tries to shake off the weird feeling crawling across his skin.  His spark is glowing low and warm inside of him, reminding him it’s there, asking to be used.  Stiles pushes it down.

 

“It was just an idea,” Stiles says, trying to dismiss the moment.  Peter stands up, wiping his hands on his thighs.

 

“Just an idea,” Peter parrots with a smirk before walking away.

  
Stiles drops his gaze to the ground where the triskelion stands out in relief against the flattened dirt.  He jumps when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder and turns to find Derek standing much closer than he had been.

 

“Do some more research about it, okay?” Derek says and his fingers twitch against the muscle of Stiles’ shoulder.  It’s been a long time since Stiles has worried about feeling the sharp prick of claws and now worries about leaning too far into the touch.  “And then we’ll talk.”

 

Stiles open his mouth to respond, although he has no idea what he’s supposed to say to that because holy fuck, is Derek actually willing to trust Stiles enough make himself part of the house he just built?  But he’s cut off when Scott’s voice sounds loudly across the clearing.

 

“If you guys are done being weird, can we go inside?  We’re supposed to be having this pack meeting and god knows how long it’s going to take to get pizza delivered out here.”

 

Derek just rolls his eyes and starts walking for the front door, his strides long and purposeful.  The rest of the group follows at his heels and Stiles would crack a joke about the alpha and his merry band of hungry betas, but he’s still trying to shake off what Peter said.

 

Derek pushes open the door to the house and the pack pushes eagerly inside.  Stiles hears the not-so-subtle sound of sniffing as the werewolves use their most instinctual scent to take note of everything.  Even Stiles can smell the new paint.  It makes sense though, considering it’s completely dark inside the house.

 

“Is there electricity hooked up?” Ethan asks just as the sound of a switch being flipped echoes through the room.

 

Warm lights flood the house.  The entryway opens into a large foyer – room enough for a pack of werewolves to gather and take off their coats and boots before moving further into the home.

 

Stiles, and the rest of the pack, prowl through the house, investigating as Derek stands watch.  The house is still empty, but Stiles can tell it’s going to be amazing once it’s furnished.  Everything is wood and brick and stone.  It’s warm and cozy, despite its size.  It’s clearly been built with space for many in mind.  The living room, just off the foyer, is huge and Stiles easily imagines a couple of couches and a comfortable chairs set around a low table and facing a big TV.  The long hallway branches into different rooms – closets, a bathroom, and something that looks like a study.  Another room holds a single piece of furniture – a massive wooden table in the center and Stiles can’t help but think that this one is meant to serve as a kind of war room.  A grand kitchen with big shiny appliances and an attached dining room draws Scott and Isaac’s attention and Stiles laughs as he hears them waxing poetic about the possibilities of what kind of food can come from that kitchen.

 

But there’s a door at the end of the long hallways that’s closed.  It’s the only one that is.  Stiles jiggles the handle only to find it it’s locked.  He frowns but lets it go.  For now.  His ever-present curiosity is piqued, but he can feel the weight of Derek’s gaze on the back of his neck.  If the door is locked, there must be something behind it he’s not supposed to see.  Except that just makes him want to see it all the more.  The house is basically barren – what is that Derek could possibly be hiding from them?  Stiles taps the heavy wooden door with his fingertips before walking back up the hallway.

 

A grand staircase, no longer in the middle but set off to the side a bit, leads up to the second story.  The wood is dark and rich and intricate carvings spiral around the railing.  When Stiles leans closer, he can see little wooden wolves running through the design.

 

“What’s up there?” Aiden asks, craning his neck to peer upwards.

 

“Bedrooms,” Derek responds.  “More bathrooms.”

 

“Enough for everyone?”

 

Derek nods slightly and Stiles feels warmth spreading through his belly.  Derek didn’t just build this house for himself; he built it for _them_.  For the pack.  Stiles wants to hug him.

 

Footsteps sound on the wooden floors and Stiles turns to see the pack converging around the staircase.  He takes a moment to look around at the familiar faces   He knows nothing is perfect between them – he has a hard time trusting the twins and even Allison – but he feels like every day they’re getting a little better.  A little stronger.  He wishes Lydia were there with them, to see the house, but he knows what it means to her to be with Jackson in London for the month.

 

“Is there Wi-Fi?” Isaac asks and then shrugs at the look Allison shoots him.

 

“Yes,” Derek sighs.  “There is Wi-Fi.”  Peter looks like he’s trying not to laugh at them all.

 

“Wait, seriously?” Stiles looks over at Derek in surprise and Derek rolls his eyes at him.

 

“Yes.  This isn’t a temporary living situation like the loft was.”

 

“So what’s the password?” Isaac is already holding his phone out, ready to type it in, and Derek just walks away.

 

“Dude,” Stiles says, shaking his head and Isaac just shrugs.

 

Scott orders a bunch of pizzas while they all pile into what Stiles assumes is the living room.  The big bay windows look out towards the dark forest and even though there isn’t anywhere to sit except the floor, Stiles feels more at home than he has in a long time.  The house just feels right.  He settles down on the floor between Derek and Isaac and folds his legs so that his knee almost bumps Derek’s.

 

There isn’t too much in the way of supernatural phenomena going on in Beacon Hills at the moment (which is nice respite from the wraith they banished two weeks ago) and the “meeting” portion of the pack gathering doesn’t take that long at all.  There’s been a couple of hikers reported missing in the wilderness over the last few months, but so far nothing about the cases pings as something the pack needs to be worried about.  Hikers get lost.  It sucks, but it happens.

 

“Do you think your dad should start coming to these meetings?” Scott asks.

 

“Why?”  Stiles’ eyebrows draw together as he tries to image the Sheriff eating pizza on the floor surrounded by a bunch of teenaged werewolves.  And Derek.  (Stiles still isn’t exactly sure how old Derek is, but he knows the man isn’t a teenager.)

 

“I don’t know.  Better cooperation with local law enforcement?  And then you wouldn’t have to relay all this information to him later.”

 

Stiles shrugs.  “I think dad’s weekly quota of supernatural weirdness gets used up every time you wolf-out over me kicking your ass at Mario Kart,” he says.  Although Stiles can’t deny that the thought of his dad sitting around the kitchen table with himself and Derek as they pour over maps and books and things does a funny little something to his stomach.  Stiles chances a glance over at Derek and finds that the very tips of his ears are pink and he wonder just what he could possibly be thinking about.

 

“All right, so unless Derek or Peter have any news about the other packs they’ve been tracking?”  Scott has that look on his face that means he’s desperately hoping the answer is no.

 

“No,” Derek says, cutting off Peter who was undoubtedly about to make some inappropriate comment about something.

 

“All right, then,” Scott claps his hands together.  “Meeting adjourned.”

 

It’s not that anyone goes anywhere; it’s just that everyone sort of relaxes.  Allison leans into Isaac’s side.  Ethan turns over and stretches out on his belly.  Scott finds the last piece of cold pizza and eats it despite the hardened, congealed cheese.  Stiles wants to rest an elbow on Derek’s shoulder, but he can’t.

  
It’s getting late and Stiles figures they should start packing it up, not that they have to get to school or anything.  But Scott has his shifts at the veterinary clinic and Allison is going to be tutoring kids over the summer.  The twins are doing whatever it is the twins do when they aren’t wreaking havoc and Isaac will probably follow Allison around.  Stiles doesn’t technically have a summer job, but he sometimes he goes down to the police station and helps out around the office.  It keeps him busy and it lets him spend time with his dad.  It also means he gets to root through the old case files looking for connections that people missed when werewolves and kanima and banshees weren’t on the table.

 

Stiles finally pushes himself up from the floor, nudging Scott with his foot, who groans.  “Come on, dude.  Help.”

 

There isn’t much to clean up.  Derek doesn’t have any dishes, yet but Stiles still wants to get the pizza boxes off the beautiful hardwood floor and wipe up any crumbs or grease.

 

“Have any of you guys been into that new shop off Main Street?” Stiles asks.  The rest of the pack is slowly getting up and finding their shoes.  Derek is standing near the windows in the living room, arms folding and watching his pack.

 

“The fro-yo place?”  Isaac offers.

 

“That’s been there four months,” Scott responds.  And he would know.

 

Allison looks over from where she’s lacing up her boots.  “The used bookstore?”

 

“Guys, it’s brand new.  Like.  I just saw it yesterday.  I think it’s some sort of magic shop.”

 

That gets people’s attention.  Derek leans forward a bit.

 

“What?”

 

“Not like, jokes and rabbits out of hats,” Stiles waves his hands around.  “Like.  Magic.  Herbs and charms and shit.  Sort of how I imagine Deaton’s house looks like.  But I’ve never seen the place before, which is weird.  But whatever.  It looks cool.  The woman who runs the place is awfully friendly though.”  Stiles thinks about Sabina and her strange eyes.

 

“You went inside?” Peter’s voice has a strange tinge to it and Stiles shrugs as he finds his own sneakers among the pile.

 

“Uhm, yeah?  It’s summer break.  I got bored so I went into town.” Stiles finishes tying up his laces.  “Strangest thing is that she knew my name,” Stiles muses and he’s surprised by the little growl that comes from Derek.

 

Peter takes a few steps towards him.  “You went into a store that you’d never seen before and the woman inside-”

 

“I think she was a witch.”

 

“-knew your name and you don’t think that’s a little…worrisome?”

 

“Dude, you all grow fangs and claws and shit.  Derek can turn into a full wolf at will.  Lydia is a fucking banshee.  I can extinguish fire with magic, which, I admit, is not nearly as awesome as the rest of that stuff but I’m new at this and I’m working on it, okay?  Like, everything in my life is a little left of weird.”  Stiles doesn’t need to be reminded that he’s still the weakest link in the pack.

 

“Did you touch anything?”  Derek asks and if Stiles weren’t sure that it couldn’t be the case, he’d have thought Derek sounded concerned.

 

“No.  Of course not.”

 

Derek’s eyebrow lifts.

 

“Fine,” Stiles rolls his eyes.  "I touched something.  But it’s nothing dangerous.”  He thinks about the deck of tarot cards sitting on his desk at home.  He’d almost brought them with tonight, but changed his mind last second.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“She gave me a deck of cards.  It’s fine.  Seriously.”  Stiles looks Derek square in the eyes.  “I promise you it’s fine.  They’re just cards.  Okay?”

 

Derek’s lips press together like he’s unconvinced but willing to let it go.

 

“All right, guys.  Come on.”  Allison has her coat on even though it’s the end of June and it’s really too warm for that sort of thing.  The pack marches dutifully towards the front door, offering Derek another round of congratulations on the house.

 

“Stiles.”

 

Stiles stops and turns towards Derek’s voice.

 

Derek is standing at the end of the foyer.  Stiles looks between Derek and Scott and catches the little nod that Derek gives Scott.

 

“Later, dude,” Scott calls out and then he leaves, taking Stiles’ way of getting home with him.

 

“Uhm, bye?”

 

When Stiles turns back, Derek is suddenly holding a couple of books in his big hands.  He almost looks a little embarrassed.

 

“Ooh, my books!”  Stiles exclaims and quickly crosses the foyer back towards Derek.  He doesn’t run.  He _doesn’t_.  “Well, your books.  For me.  Awesome, dude.  I can’t wait.  Thanks.”  Stiles sees the worn, faded cover and how yellowed the pages are.

 

“Shit, man.  How old are they?  Where did you get them?  I hope they’re in English.  I can’t believe I almost forgot about them.”  He reaches his hands out towards the books and almost laughs at how even _he_ can see Derek’s fingers tightening around them.

 

“Be careful with them,” Derek says.

 

“Hey.  Have I ever sullied, stained, spilled coffee on, or otherwise damaged any of your books?” Stiles asks indignantly, settling his hands on his hips and looking at Derek with what he knows is a teasing expression.   “No, I have not.  You can trust me.”

 

A muscle in Derek’s jaw twitches.  Standing this close, Stiles can see every shade of green in his eyes.  “No, I meant.  Be _careful_ with them.  This is about the cards the witch gave you, isn’t it?”

 

“You know me, I just want to know more about them.  I’m curious, but I’m not stupid.”

 

Derek’s blinks and Stiles hopes that he doesn’t actually still think that Stiles is incompetent.  He knows they started out pretty badly, what with the false arrest and that whole mess.  But that’s behind them now Stiles is decently sure that he’s proved himself to Derek, and the pack, time and again over the years. He knows he’s not as strong as they are, that his body is weaker and a baseball bat just isn’t as effective as a wolf's claws or a crossbow, but he also knows that they come to him for help.  Even Derek.  Because he’s smart, because he can see patterns and connections that the others can’t.  He knows he has a place in the pack.  But sometimes the doubt still creeps in, dark as fear.

 

“No,” Derek says and Stiles’ heart stutters.  “You’re not.”  Derek extends the books out to him.  Warmth blooms in Stiles’ belly and he tries not to grin too brightly.

 

“Thank you.”  He hugs the books to his chest.

 

Derek is looking at him with one of his many unreadable expressions.  Stiles has gotten better at figuring out what certain looks mean, like the difference between annoyed and actually angry, but there are some that he just can’t decipher.  And this is one of them.  Derek’s pale eyes are somehow both sharp and soft around the edges.  His lips are slightly parted, white teeth just barely visible, but he seems to be holding his jaw still.

 

Sometimes Stiles wishes Derek would just say whatever it is that he’s biting back.

 

“So…can I get a rid back to my jeep?”

 

The moment breaks and Derek rolls his eyes.  “Come on.”  Derek uncrosses his arms and heads for the front door, but he pauses.  Stiles watches, frowning in confusion, as Derek silently turns on his heels and heads up the staircase.  It doesn’t take more than a moment before Derek is back in front of him, and holding something out towards Stiles.

 

“What’s this?”  Stiles asks, juggling the books into one hand to reach for the item.

 

“What’s it look like?”  Derek responds, both aloud and with his eyebrows.

 

“It…looks like my hoodie.”  The fabric is soft and worn beneath his fingers.  It’s one of his favorites.  Derek just quirks an eyebrow at him.

 

So maybe sometimes Stiles leaves things behind at Derek’s loft.  He doesn’t mean to do it, but it happens.  He gets over-warm with all the werewolf bodies radiating heat like they do, especially after they’ve been out for a run.

 

“Why is it at the house?”

 

Derek is silent for a long moment and if Stiles wasn’t certain it couldn’t be true, he’d have said that Derek’s cheeks were a little pink, just a little.  “I accidentally packed it.”

 

“Oh.”  That shouldn’t make Stiles’ inside squirm the way it does.  He doesn’t want to think too long or too hard about what that might mean, that Derek just grabbed his hoodie along with the rest of his own clothing, not even thinking about it.  But it does mean something, Stiles knows it does.  He blushes when he sees Derek’s nostrils flaring, just a little.  He hates how the werewolves can so easily sense his emotions, his hormones – things completely out of his control.  It’s not his fault.  Derek is…whatever Derek is and Stiles’ reactions to him are his own business.  Except they’re not.  Not really.

 

“Well, thanks.”

 

Derek nods sharply.  “Let’s get you back,” he says and Stiles follows him out of the house.  The door snicks softly shut behind them.


	3. Just a Wish

Stiles had started out the summer break completely bored out of his mind and worried about getting into trouble because of it, but that all turns around once he gets his hands on those tarot cards and Derek’s books.  Stiles really never _looks_ to get into trouble, he doesn’t have to.  It finds him anyway.

 

The first book from Derek that Stiles cracks open is all about the history of tarot and different, related divinatory practices throughout the world.  He spends the morning and early afternoon reading up on a few theories that trace the origins back to ancient Egypt and a few more that point towards deeper, darker uses.  (Stiles very pointedly does not take notes in the margins of the books because even if Derek tolerates his presence now, and maybe even likes him a little bit, Stiles knows he’d be a dead man if he marked up Derek’s book).  Some of the chapters trace the etymology of tarot and the major and minor arcana, and while that’s all super interesting and Stiles files the information away for later use, it’s just not what he’s looking for.

 

He wants to know how to _read_ the cards.  It’s all well and good that he turns a card over and it shows him an intricate drawing of a frowning sun in the sky and a baby on a horse.  But he doesn’t know what it _means_.  He knows that so much of magic is about belief, about will, and not about concrete knowledge or fact.  It’s his will that keeps the flame of a candle burning or extinguishes it.  Stiles understands that his spark grows and dies with the strength of his belief.  He can know the shape of the runes and he can sound their names with his lips, but if he doesn’t believe in their power and the fact that they will do what he asks, they’re nothing but pretty lines in the sand.  Right now the tarot deck is nothing more than a stack of playing cards.

 

Stiles closes the back cover of Derek’s book with a heavy sigh.  At least the damn thing was in English after all.  The second book from Derek is still sitting on the desk, but Stiles, for once, doesn’t really feel like keeping on with research.  He’s too restless for it.

 

He could go bother Scott and Deaton at the clinic.  It’s always nice to watch Scott play with the puppies, calming them down with his weird alpha powers.  And Stiles wants to talk to Deaton more about the protective runes and spells for Derek’s house.  Even if Deaton gives him one of those patented Deaton “I know you’re up to something” looks that makes Stiles feel about eight years old.

 

Stiles spins his desk chair around several times before stopping facing his desk.  The deck of tarot cards sits next to his laptop, where they so often are. 

 

“All right,” he says to himself, rubbing his hands together.  “This can’t be that hard.”  He picks up the cards and shuffles them, the movement already growing quick and practiced. 

 

Stiles turns over the first card.  He sees what looks like a figure of authority giving advice to a couple of supplicants.  He stares at it, looking at the symbols, the iconography, trying to make meaning of them.  He takes a breath, flips over the second card, and places it to the right of the first.  This time it’s an image of a cloaked man beginning a journey up a mountain. Stiles squints.

  
“Okay…” Alone the first card made a statement; paired with the second it’s beginning to tell a story.  But Stiles doesn’t know _what_.

  
Stiles rubs his fingertips together before he reaches for the third and final card, turning it over and resting it beside the other two.  He sits back in his chair.  This time the drawing is of a scary image of two people falling to their deaths from the top of a tall tower Stiles frowns.  He doesn’t know much, but he know that does not look good.

 

“Okay.  So…we’ve got advice, which is guidance.  And we’ve got someone on a pathway upwards.  And then I’m just gonna go ahead and assume that a couple of people falling from a burning tower means trouble.  That’s…just great.  With trouble comes danger and with danger comes death and darkness.  Just like everything else in my life.”

 

Stiles sighs and rubs his hands across his face in exasperation.  Just _once_ he’d like for the fortune in his life to turn towards something good, something lasting.  Something that doesn’t end up with him gasping for breath and clawing for air.  Just once.

 

Stiles sweeps the cards up and reshuffles the deck.

 

“Just once,” he whispers to himself as he takes the top card and turns it over.

 

The Knight of Cups.  Stiles looks at the drawing of a regal knight astride a powerful horse.  The man has a straight nose, broad shoulders and a strong jaw.  He looks in control, ready for action.

 

Stiles taps the card with his fingers, thoughtful.  He tries to make some sort of intuitive leaps between the knight and horse and the suit of cups and what they mean to him, but he’s got nothing.  Derek’s book never quite went deep enough into the iconography, the meanings behind the symbols and how they’re supposed to divine...something.  He now knows the different suits have different associations: the spiritual world, the physical, the emotional.  But he also learned that the links change depending on the intent of the person doing the reading, what questions asked, what answers sought.  But all that leaves Stiles with is a lot of confusion.  And a hungry stomach.

 

Stiles sighs and slides the card back into the deck.  He really does need to get some sort of instruction guide for these things.

 

***

 

The police station is bustling with the usual activity when Stiles pulls into a parking spot.  He’d decided not to read the other book, feeling like he needed to get outside for a little while anyway.  He’d texted Scott about swinging by the clinic, but there was some sort of Schnauzer emergency going on and it wasn’t exactly the best time to hang out.  He’d tried to Skype Lydia, but she’d been getting ready to go out with Jackson and Stiles really isn’t interested in stepping in on the little time they have together before Lydia flies back to Beacon Hills.

 

Stiles briefly contemplated texting Derek to tell him he’d already read one of the books and to thank him again for it and maybe hint at wanting a few more, but he thought maybe he should finish the second one first.  And then he thought about adding that he was hungry and maybe Derek wanted to go get something to eat too and maybe they could go get something together and that sounded so incredibly like he was awkwardly trying to ask Derek out on a date that Stiles’ turned red and he dropped the phone on the bed before he could finish typing the first word.

 

So that leaves bothering his dad at work.

 

The receptionist waves him in and Stiles finds his dad in his office.  The desk is covered in the usual paperwork and a mug of what is undoubtedly cold coffee sits at his elbow.  His dad’s forehead is creased as he concentrates on reading some report.

 

“Hey, dad,” Stiles says from the doorway.

 

The Sheriff looks up and the furrow in his brow creases a little more.  “What’s happened?”

 

Stiles frowns as he slides into the chair across the desk from his dad.  “Is that any way to greet your doting son?”

 

“Who’s in trouble?” The Sheriff puts his pen down and he looks like he’s about to get up from his chair and spring into action.

 

“Why would someone be in trouble?”  Stiles picks the discarded pen up and begins twirling it through his fingers.

 

“Well,” the Sheriff leans back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach.  “It’s just that when you or Scott or Derek show up at the station it’s usually because I’m about to hear some really awful news about something I didn’t even know existed until that moment.”

 

Stiles frowns.  That’s not true at all.  He was at the station just the other week filing mountains of backlogged paperwork.  And maybe it took a half a week just to get through one box because he spent most of the day reading the files instead of shelving them.  But he did figure out that several unsolved drowning cases from several years ago actually had to do with a couple of nixies and not just that the victims were inexperienced swimmers.

 

“Wait.  Why is Derek ever here?  You haven’t tried to arrest him again have you?”

 

The Sheriff narrows his eyes at his son and Stiles feels like he’s completely missing something that should be utterly obvious.

 

“Why are you here, Stiles?”  The Sheriff inquires, the sighing tone of his voice indicating that he’s got work to do and would rather Stiles stop wasting his time.

 

“I just wanted to come by and check on you.  Like the caring, concerned son that I am.”

 

“Oh, son.  You know I don’t believe that for one damn second.”

 

“Fine.  Have you found out anything new about the cases?”

 

The Sheriff splays his hands out towards the different piles of paper and case files covering his deck.  “ _Which_ cases?”

 

Stiles sometimes forgets how much his dad has to deal with, especially with a town this small.  At least things have a gotten a little easier now that the Sheriff knows that not every suspect is going to be human.  “The hikers.”

 

“Only that another one has gone missing.”

 

“So that makes what? Four in a couple of months?”

 

“Yep,” the Sheriff replies.

 

“Seems like a lot.”

 

“It is.”  There’s a long beat of silence as they stare at each other.  Stiles can see that his dad is thinking that maybe things aren’t easier just because of his newfound supernatural knowledge.

 

The Sheriff glances towards the still open door of his office, watching as a deputy walks past with her nose buried in a case file, before he leans across his desk towards Stiles.  “Is this something that you think I need to call in the canine unit about?”  His voice is low and conspiratorial and Stiles tries not to snort about the use of the agreed upon nickname.

 

“They’ve already been sniffing around the area, but they haven’t picked anything up.”

The wolves have been roaming around the hills and the forests where the hikers have gone missing from, but they haven’t been able to pick up a particular scent out of the tangle of smells.

 

“Those trails are pretty popular,” Stiles continues.  “And the canine unit doesn’t have anything to start with, you know?  Nothing to help them pinpoint.  Can’t really ask a grieving family for a piece of clothing to sniff.  And I seem to remember being expressly told by certain members of the local law enforcement to stop breaking into people’s homes to procure items for said unit.  But if another hiker is just now missing the trail might not yet have gone cold.”

 

“Well, if it’s not too much to ask.”  The Sheriff still has a hard time asking Stiles to get the pack to help out on cases.  Maybe he thinks it says something about his own ability to protect Beacon Hills.

 

“Of course.  I’ll get Derek right away.”  Stiles doesn’t add that those hills are part of Derek’s territory.  Whether or not he’s an official alpha that land has belonged to his family for countless generations.  It belongs to him and it’s his to oversee and protect.

 

The Sheriff makes an affirmative noise in his throat as Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket.

 

 _Are you busy?_ He texts to Derek and holds onto his phone to wait for the response.  
  
“Stiles,” his dad begins and Stiles already knows what’s coming.  “Since you’re already here…”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Got a couple of new boxes for you.  Really juicy stuff.”

 

“You don’t say.”

 

The Sheriff grins and Stiles sort of hates that expression.  He’s seen it time and again, every time his dad somehow manages to wrangle him into doing something he never had any intention of doing.  Like cleaning out of the garage.  Or the proper assigned topic on his English midterm.  No good ever comes from that smirk.  “Shoplifting and vandalism,” the sheriff proudly concludes.  “Help your old man out.”

 

Stiles sighs.  “Great.  Can’t wait.”  But then his phone buzzes in his hand.

 

**Scouting with Peter.**

 

_Another hiker is missing._

 

**I know.**

 

_Thoughts oh ye of few words?_

 

**Come by tomorrow.**

 

Stiles shoves his phone away and looks back up at his dad.  “Gonna talk to Derek about it tomorrow.  He already heard about the missing hiker.”

 

His dad just gives him that impenetrable looks that says Stiles is clearly missing something.  Again.  But that no one is going to tell him what.

 

“So…I’ll just get started on those boxes then.”

 

***

 

The sense of awe that filled Stiles when he first saw the newly rebuilt Hale house returns just as strongly when he drives up the dirt road and pulls into the clearing.  In the light of the day the house is shades of green and mauve and it fits almost seamlessly with the backdrop of the shadowed forest.  This is the house that was always meant to be there.

 

It’s quiet when Stiles gets out of the Jeep – it’s always quiet – and he takes a moment to look around.  The clearing is still unfinished, just dead, flattened grass and leftover masonry from the stonework.  But Stiles can imagine that eventually the almost barren ground with be alive with plants and flowers and shrubs.  And maybe Derek will build a stone patio with a barbeque and room for a massive table where the whole pack can sit outside under the sun or the moon.

 

He wants to see the house decorated for Halloween, becoming the premiere destination for all the kids in town who want to test their bravery and courage against the infamous Hale Haunted House.  He wants to see the eaves aglow in Christmas lights with a massive Christmas tree twinkling through the big bay living room windows.  Stiles wants to the see the house shrouded in misty morning fog and illuminated only by the stark light of the full moon.  He wants to see it _last_.

 

Stiles closes his eyes.  The spark isn’t so much a thing inside of him as it is a feeling, a knowing.  It’s intangible, but as real as his breath and blood.  When he reaches for it, it grows warm deep down inside.  It’s not his belly; it’s deeper.  It’s in the very fabric of his soul.  He breathes in and feels the heat of the spark answering.  He imagines the runes he’s been learning from Deaton, but hasn’t quite gotten a whole of, the edges and lines of them.  How they form together into symbols and how the symbols work together to cast something like a spell.  He thinks about what the symbols mean. 

 

Power.  Protection.  Hearth.  Barrier.  Family.  Safety.  Security.

 

He sinks deeper into it and feels the air around him growing warm.  Or maybe it’s him that’s glowing brighter and brighter.  He swears he can see the symbols glowing even though his eyes are closed.

 

“Stiles.”

 

The moment breaks, almost violently.  Stiles gasps as his eyes snap open, power flaring sharp and painful in his chest, and his breath punches out of him.  Derek is standing on the porch of the house.  His hands are splayed wide down at his sides and he looks scared.  Which is ridiculous because Derek is a fucking werewolf – he’s _Derek_ – he’s doesn’t get scared. 

 

“Hey,” Stiles breathes, voice whisper soft, before his whole body grows cold and he collapses to the ground.  The last thing he hears is Derek roaring his name before everything goes dark.

 

***

 

Stiles wakes on something soft, but supportive.  It smells like new fabric, almost like glue or tape.  Stiles shifts and then groans as every joint in his body flares with pain.  He feels like he was stretched apart and then snapped back at the last moment.

 

“Oh,” Stiles grunts.  He hears a low, guttural sound, almost like pain, but it doesn’t come from him.

 

He struggles to sit up, but something heavy pushes back on his chest, keeping him down.

 

“Easy,” he hears and knows that it’s Derek.

 

Stiles opens his eyes and blinks the world back into focus.  He’s in Derek’s living room, lying on what’s obviously a couch.  He wonders when Derek had the time to go out and get furniture and why he didn’t ask Stiles to come with him.

 

He turns his head to the side, ignoring the flare of pain behind his eyes, and finds Derek sitting right there, right next to him, so close Stiles can see the edges of darker color in his eyes, just around his pupils, and the very pattern of his beard.

 

“Hey,” Stiles whispers because he doesn’t trust that he can speak any louder.  Derek’s hand is still on his chest and the heat of his palm feels an awful lot like Stiles’ spark.

 

Derek’s nostrils flare as he breathes in.  His nose is very straight, not that Stiles is just noticing that.  “Hey.”

 

“I’m not bleeding on your brand new couch am I?”

 

“No.”  The word comes like a rasp, like Derek couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or growl.  
  
“Oh, good.” Stiles tries to sit up again, and this time Derek helps him.  Everything hurts, but Stiles still shivers to feel Derek’s strong arm sliding around his back, easily and carefully guiding him into a sitting position against the armrest of the sofa.

  
Stiles takes a moment just to breathe, letting his lungs test the limits of his ribs.  Nothing feels broken, just bruised from the inside.  The heat of Derek’s body is easing the ache and Stiles hopes that Derek doesn’t realize that he’s basically hugging Stiles right now and just stays where he is.

 

“Are you okay?”  Derek questions.

 

“Yeah, yeah.  I’m fine.”  Stiles doesn’t know if that’s actually true or not.  He’s never experienced what he just went through.  Even taking the hit from the witch’s curse had simply felt like a powerful blow, and Derek had absorbed most of that anyway.

 

A fine tremor runs through Derek’s hands.  Stiles can tell because those hands are still on him.

 

“Do you know what you were doing?”

 

“I…” Stiles tries to recall what happened.  “I think I was trying cast a spell, but without meaning to.  The runes,” he muses, remembering the way he’d envisioned them.  “But I didn’t…I didn’t mean to.  I wasn’t-”

 

“Stop.”

 

Stiles draws another breath in and his body already hurts a little less.  “I wasn’t in control.”

 

“No,” Derek agrees.  “You weren’t.”

 

Stiles flushes in shame, but to his immense surprise he swears he feels the sweep of Derek’s hand across his back – a soothing, comforting gesture.

 

“It’s okay,” Derek murmurs and that surprises Stiles just as much.  “I think what happened is that it got away from you because you were working without intention,” Derek continues and his voice is a low rumble that’s as calming as his touch.  Stiles is so very screwed.  “Your – your magic was working without your will.  I don’t know why or how.  But when I said your name…”

 

“Everything snapped.”

 

Derek nods.

 

“All right then.  Well.”  Stiles wriggles his toes and cracks his knuckles.  “I won’t let that happen again.”

  
Derek makes a low noise deep in his chest.  “I can take you home if you aren’t feeling up to driving.”

 

“What?  No.  I’m fine.”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“I came over to talk about the missing hikers.  I’m _fine_.  They’re not.  So.”  Stiles swings his legs over the edge of the couch, groaning at the movement.  But he aches even less than before so he takes that as a good sign.  Derek leans back to give him room and Stiles realizes that Derek has been kneeling on the floor.  His stomach growls unhappily before he can think too much about that.

 

“Uh,” Stiles begins.  “So, don’t judge me for this, but I’m suddenly fucking starving.  You don’t happen to have any food in the house yet do you?”

 

Derek rolls his eyes and stands up from the floor.  “That’s the power drain talking.  I’ve got a couple of dead rabbits in the fridge that should help.”

 

Stiles gulps and stares up at Derek, who looks solemnly down at him for several seconds until he rolls his eyes _again_.  “That was a joke, Stiles.”

 

“Ah.  Yes, funny.  Har har.  Help me up and feed me.  Something that didn’t used to go by the name Mr. Fluffy.”

 

Derek reaches down and settles his hands on Stiles’ elbow and his back, bringing him slowly to his feet.  Stiles wobbles, but only slightly, and Derek’s hands steady him.  Stiles is pretty sure that if he were feeling just a little bit better heat would be flaring low and heady in his belly.  He pushes the fluttering in his chest down anyway.

 

“I’m still going to do the real runes,” he declares suddenly.  “Deaton has books.  You have books, but Deaton has the books on runes.  Unless you also have books on runes, and in that case, gimme please.”

 

Derek’s mouth twitches like he’s desperately trying to hide a smile.  “One thing at a time, okay?  Food first, then we’ll get to the rest.”

 

Stiles nods.  “Okay.”

 

***

 

In the short time since Stiles was last in the house, Derek has apparently gotten some shopping done.  Stiles spots different pieces of furniture scattered in different room as they move down the hallway to the kitchen – chairs and bookshelves and little tables.  The normal things of a home.  Most of the cabinets in the kitchen are still empty, but there’s a huge reclaimed wooden table in the dining room, ringed by ten chairs, and Stiles sits at it while Derek makes him a sandwich.

 

They eat quickly and quietly, partly because Stiles is ravenous, partly because he really does want to get to the hikers, but mostly because he’s not sure what to say to Derek in that moment.  Derek sits at the head of the table, picking at his own PB&J, and not saying anything either.

 

When they’re done, Stiles sweeps up his crumbs, washes his hands, and turns back to Derek.  He takes pause at the intense look in Derek’s pale eyes as the other man watches him standing at the sink, but Stiles shakes it off.  Derek is just an intense kind of guy.

  
“So, uh…we should get to the hikers,” Stiles doesn’t quite stutter.

 

“Come on.”

 

Stiles follows Derek into the room on the main floor that had previously only held a huge table.  Clearly Derek’s done some redecorating in here too.  Now there are bookshelves (mostly empty) and a few chairs.  Unpacked boxes sit on the floor and Stiles wonders if Derek’s been sleeping at all to get this done in as short amount of time as he has.  It must be important to him, to fill the house.

 

Stiles notices a huge map of the United States is tacked up on one wall.  There are markings and pushpins all across is, clustered here and there.

 

“Ooh.  Is that the map of the other packs you and Peter have been working on?”  Stiles inquires, automatically walking towards it.  It looks detailed and complicated and he totally wants to get his hands all over it.

 

“It is.”

 

“And these are the ally packs, right?” Stiles’ fingers hover over the blue markings.  He looks back over his shoulder to see the affirmative nod Derek gives him.

 

“Red are known or suspected alpha packs,” Derek relays.  “Yellow are any packs that harbor unfriendly feelings towards us.”

 

“Why would anyone be against your pack?  I mean, aside from all the people who’ve tried to kill us over the last two years.”

 

Derek shrugs and folds his arms across his chest.  “The Hales are an ancient pack.  We’ve made our fair share of enemies over the centuries.  It’s just the way of things.  It doesn’t matter how good you are, or how good you think you are.  Allegiances change.  Alliances shift.  There are marriages and children who break off into their own packs.”  Derek turns his gaze out of the window.  “It’s the way of the world.  The moon keeps on phasing.”

 

Not for the first time Stiles itches to ask Derek more about his family, about werewolves.  They’ve talked before, a little, when the hour is late and Derek’s guard is down.  About Laura and Talia.  Derek’s father, too, the one time.  But Stiles knows there’s so much Derek hasn’t even mentioned.  And maybe never will.

 

Stiles rubs his fingers against the edge of the map.  “This is really great, man,” he mumbles instead of letting fly the questions sitting heavy on his tongue.  It doesn’t quite cover it, but Stiles doesn’t know how else to let Derek know that he’s so impressed, so proud with what Derek has done with the pack.  How he’s made them a unit and not just a ragged team of egos on the edge of tearing themselves apart from the inside.

 

“You wanted to talk about the hikers?” Derek asks, turning back from the window.

 

“Yeah, yeah.  The hikers.”  There’s a lot Stiles wants to talk about.

 

Derek inclines his head towards the table that sits in the middle of the room and Stiles realizes that there’s another map laid out across the surface.  He comes closer, stepping around to where Derek stands.  This one is a large topographical map showing the mountains and trails around Beacon Hills.

 

“These are the areas where the four hikers were last reported seen.”  Derek taps the circled locations on the map.  “And these highlights are the trails where Peter, Scott, and I have followed their scents.”  Stiles watches Derek’s long fingers trace along the paper.  His hands are huge and strong, not skinny like Stiles thinks his are.  “You can see how all of the trails just sort of…”

 

“End,” Stiles finishes for him.

 

“Exactly.”

 

“And there’s no trace of a struggle or a fight.  No blood.”

 

“Not a drop.”

 

Stiles rests his palms on the heavy wood of the table, leaning his weight on them.  “So, we still have no idea what happened to them?  Other than that they just…disappear.  Into thin air.  Poof.  I’m pretty sure they’re not aparating or anything.”

 

Derek snorts, just a little, and Stiles tries not to preen.  Getting Derek to laugh is in the top five of his Daily Goals list.  “That’s all we have right now.”

 

“Are there are connections between the victims?” Stiles inquires, even though he’s read the case files from his dad back to front and knows that there aren’t.  At least none that anyone has been able to figure out.

 

“Just that they’re missing,” Derek responds.  He sounds just as perplexed by the whole thing as Stiles is.  There’s a brush of fabric and warmth against Stiles’ shoulder as Derek plants his own hands on the table and leans in, consciously or unconsciously mimicking Stiles’ posture, and Stiles’ heartbeat ratchets up a notch in response to the probably accidental touch.  Stiles holds his breath and can’t focus on the map.  He has no idea if Derek is saying anything.

 

It’s not like touch from Derek is _completely_ foreign to Stiles.  Sure, their tactile relationship started with Derek smashing Stiles’ face into a steering wheel, but that’s in the past.  They’ve progressed, in their own way.  So maybe they aren’t hugging (although Stiles is totally counting that moment on the couch as a hug), but Derek doesn’t flinch away when they bump elbows or feet.  And he’s certainly not shying away now.

 

Derek leans just a little heavier into Stiles, just a fraction, and there it is, the heat that twists up in Stiles’ belly.  The gut clenching ache that he tries to ignore when Derek gets this close, or actually smiles, or takes off his shirt, which happens a remarkable amount.

 

Stiles nervously flicks his gaze over and catches the flare of Derek’s nostrils and Stiles blushes.  He knows the werewolves can smell changes in body chemistry, that they can scent fear and pain and joy.  And arousal.

 

He hates it, how he’s so easily readable to the wolves, to Derek.  That he can’t hide it.  Every beat of his heart can be heard and every note of his longing smelled.  It’s one thing to lie to himself, to pretend that Derek is just Derek and that whatever reaction he has to him doesn’t mean anything.  So what if Derek pushed Stiles out of the way of the curse that would have killed him.  So what if that was just another instance of Derek putting himself in harm’s way to protect Stiles.  It doesn’t mean anything because Stiles is _pack_.  Derek would do the same for Scott or Isaac or the twins.  (Maybe not the twins.)  It doesn’t mean anything because Stiles is Stiles and he is nothing Derek might want in return.

 

“So…” Stiles drums his fingers on the table.  “Something supernatural then.”  At least as Stiles has this to focus on instead of the heat of Derek seeping into him.

 

“Probably,” Derek agrees. “But we don’t know what.  There are more things out there than we know.”

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose.  It’s true though.  It feels like every couple of month the forests of Beacon Hill spit out some strange new danger for them to deal with.  He wonders if other packs have to deal with things like this, or if life is easier for them.  He hopes it is.  He hopes there are packs out there who go on with their lives, worrying about nothing more pressing than if there’s enough milk in the fridge or if they need to pick some up from the store.

 

“So what do we do?”

 

“We keep digging,” Derek answers.  “Peter and I were able to get to where the latest hiker went missing faster than we were the others.  We followed her path from the trailhead at the parking lot up to where it just…stops.  The only thing we’ve been able to say for certain is that the hikers were all headed higher up into the mountains when they went missing.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean they were heading _up_ the trails.”  Stiles watches Derek trace a line up the map with his finger.  “Not coming down.”

  
Stiles doesn’t know why, but he suddenly has a flash of the tarot cards that he’d turned over that morning.  He bites down on his lip.  He worries about bringing them up, but he’s never been good at keeping quiet.

 

“Uhm…would you say that perhaps someone or even something is…leading them to their deaths?”

 

Derek narrows his eyes.  “Why?”

 

“Oh, you know.”  Stiles straightens up from the table, nerves making him antsy.  “It’s just, they’re heading upwards.  Like they’re being lead.  Or guided.  Maybe they were given advice?  Bad advice.  And they’re on a trail.  A pathway.  Leading up.  To danger.  Maybe they fell.”  He knows it sounds completely stupid as he’s saying it and he can’t shut himself up.

 

“Where are you pulling this from?”

 

“Uhm…”

Derek stands up straight, pulling himself to his full height as he crosses his arm over his chest.  “Stiles.”

 

Stiles thinks for one brief moment about trying to lie, to come up with some bullshit line about he’s just that intuitive, but Derek would be able to tell.  And there’s no point anyway.  “I think the tarot cards showed me something this morning and-”

 

“You’ve been using the tarot cards?” Derek interrupts, voice deep and sharp with concern.

 

“No!” Stiles throws his hands up.  “Not really.  Maybe a little.”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“What?  I’m telling you.  They’re harmless.”  Stiles doesn’t tell him that the tarot cards are currently in his pocket and that he likes to carry them with him.  “But I do think they were trying to tell me something.  I’m not really sure _what_ though because I read one of your books and all it really talked about was the history of the card, which, yeah, was super interesting and all but it didn’t say anything about how to actually _read_ and interpret the cards.  And right now I think that’s what I need.  I should probably have read the second book, shouldn’t I?”

 

Derek’s nostrils flare and he presses his lips together.  “I gave you those books so you could _learn_ about tarot, which is what I thought you wanted to do.”

 

“I do!” Stiles protests.  He hates to think that Derek is disappointed in him.  He doesn’t know when Derek’s opinion of him came to mean to so much, but it has.

 

“I didn’t give you those books so you could get into trouble.”

 

“I’m not getting into trouble.”

 

The eyebrow that Derek lifts at him is enough to make Stiles snap his mouth shut.  So maybe he got into a _little_ bit of trouble not two hours ago, what with the magic gone awry and the passing out and all that.  But he’s fine now.  And these are tarot cards they’re talking about, not actual magic.

 

“How about this,” Stiles offers.  “I’ll go home and read that other book.  Thank you again for them, by the way.  And you and Peter can try and sniff out anything else on the trails.  The more we know the better.  Knowledge is power.  Etcetera.”

 

Stiles doesn’t say that he’s going to try and do another tarot spread once he figures out what the cards actually mean and how to put it all together.  The cards seem a little vague, but if they can help at all, then why the hell not?  But Derek’s expression – the tight jaw and the furrowed brow – suggests that he probably knows exactly what Stiles is going to do anyway.

 

“I’m going to bring Scott and Isaac along too.”

 

“Good, good.  More noses the merrier.”

 

Derek makes a low noise in his throat, but doesn’t say anything else.

 

Stiles can tell that it’s sort of his cue to leave, but he doesn’t really want to.  He wants to stay and eat a real meal and maybe check out the two upper floors of the house that he hasn’t even seen yet.  He wants to sit with Derek on the new couch (which is delightfully comfortable) and ask him about his interior decorating plans – if he has a theme or if he’s just winging it.  He wants to know what’s behind the locked door at the end of the hallway and what Derek’s bedroom looks like.

 

“All right, then I better get going.  Dad’s going to be home for dinner tonight so.”

 

Derek nods like he understands completely and Stiles tries not to drag his feet as they walk to the front door together.  He doesn’t want to go, but has no reason to stay.

 

Stiles lopes down the front steps, but stops at the bottom and turns back around.  Derek is still standing at the top, as though seeing him off.  “Hey, Derek?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Did you really mean what you said the other day?  About me and the runes?”  
  
Derek’s lips press together and Stiles watches in amazement as his pupils expand, wide and dark.  He doesn’t know what that look means, but he thinks it must mean something.  He’s done enough Googling to know that it’s not _nothing_ when someone’s pupils dilate.

 

“Talk to Deaton about it,” Derek hedges.  “Be certain of what you’re doing.  I don’t,” Derek pauses and swallow.  “I don’t want you risking another incident like today.  It’s not worth it.”

 

“I would never fuck up your house.”  Stiles need Derek to understand that.

 

“Stiles.  It’s not about the-”

 

But Stiles cuts Derek off.  “Seriously.  I know that I can be, well, you guys know what I’m like.”  Stiles shrugs.  He knows he has a place in the pack, but sometimes it’s hard not to feel like they’re all just indulging him sometimes.  “But I wouldn’t purposefully do anything to mess with your place.  You have to know that.  This is something I can do.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You know that I’m not a complete fuck up?  I mean, aside from today, which I think we can both agree was a one-time thing that will never happen again.”

 

“I know that this is something you _can_ do.”

 

That rocks Stiles on his feet.  Praise comes sparsely from Derek.  “Oh.  And you…trust me with this?  Because Peter said…”

 

“I know what Peter said,” and it comes out a growl.  “It’s just…there’s a lot going on right now, Stiles.  Worry about the important things first.  The rest will come.”

 

Stiles doesn’t quite know what that means, but he nods and gets into his car anyway.  He spots Derek in his rearview mirror, still standing on the porch, even as he drives away down the dirt road back out onto to the main street.


	4. The Gypsy That I Was

When Stiles wakes up in the morning (still early by lack of light peeking through his curtains), he automatically reaches for his nightstand, where the tarot deck is waiting for him, the way it has been ever since he got the damn thing.  He turns the top card over, almost thoughtlessly.

 

The Ace of Pentacles.  Stiles frowns.  He remembers that the pentacles, or coins, have something to do with the physical world, but also with emotional stability.  But when drawn by someone with thoughts of love and relationships on the brain, the card represents new life cycles, new relationships – a push towards growth.  Stiles stares at the image on the card: cupped hands holding a coin that looks an awful lot like a great full moon.  Stiles rubs his lips with his fingers and, unbidden, thinks about the card he’d flipped over before, the Knight of Cups – that serious looking man with straight nose and broad shoulders.

  
Fuck he really needs to learn what the symbols mean.

 

Stiles glances to the other side of the room.  Derek’s other book on tarot – the one he didn’t read – is still sitting on Stiles’ desk.  Instead of getting out of bed, which would defeat the purpose of not getting out of bed, Stiles crawls to the end of the mattress and stretches out as far as he can, fingers reaching and reaching for the book.  He can see himself loosing his balance and falling, cracking his chin on the floor and having to explain to his dad how he put his tooth through his lip at 5:30 in the morning.  But he really doesn’t want to get out of bed.

 

He just manages to snatch up the book and he collapses back on his bed, breathing out sigh of relief.  Stiles scootches himself back up and gets comfortable among his pillows, drawing his legs up and resting the book on his knees.  He’s not going anywhere for a while.

 

The cover feels like leather under his fingertips, soft and smooth, worn with age.  There’s no title that Stiles can discern, but there’s a symbol drawn into the surface – faded, but still visible.  It’s shaped like a great wheel with arrows and markings and if Stiles were to take a guess he’d say it looked like a wheel of fortune.  But Stiles doesn’t know any better.  He opens the cover and breathes in the old familiar smell of the pages and ink.  He’s desperate to know where Derek gets these books and why he has them.  And why he lets Stiles take them, since they seem so incredibly important.  Important enough to be in Derek’s care and not Peter’s, or even Deaton’s.

 

But Derek is a man of many mysteries and Stiles is pretty sure that even after these couple of years they’ve known each other he’s only begun to scratch the surface.

 

***

 

His dad is already at the table when Stiles pads down into the kitchen hours later.  His head is buzzing with new information and his stomach is grumbling unhappily at having gone so long without food.  He can’t even process everything the book had told him, about the different types of tarot spreads and their particular uses, deeper insight into the major and minor arcana, the way the meanings behind the suits change depending on the desired use of the divination.  There’s so much.

 

He thinks about the three cards he’d drawn the other day – the ones that seemed to show him an advisor and a pathway and almost certain death.  There’s something niggling at the back of his mind.  A possibility of what it might mean.  But it’s so weird, so bizarre, so totally impossible that he wants to dismiss it outright.  But he can’t.  Because every time some possible outcome sounds completely ludicrous, it tends to be what’s actually going on.  And so far it’s the only explanation he’s been able to come up with.  Even if it’s completely wrong.  But he thinks they should investigate it anyway.

 

Because sometimes it’s the person you least expect who causes the most shit, especially in Beacon Hills.  Why should the new high school guidance counselor be any different?  He’ll bring it up with Scott because he does anything rash.

 

But beyond that, Stiles has been inadvertently doing a one-card spread for himself every morning and he’s pretty that he has a better idea of what the cards having been trying to show him.  Maybe.  He’s too hungry to decipher much of anything at the moment.  Especially the hints of things he thinks he’s seeing.

  
“Well,” the Sheriff says, looking up at Stiles over the edge of his newspaper.  “I do have to say I’m happy to see that you aren’t sleeping the entire day away this summer.”

  
“What can I say?  I’m a busy man with very important things to accomplish.  Just because I’m not wasting away in school with an ever-rotating selection of teachers who may or may not be out to kill me doesn’t mean I can just laze the summer away.” He keeps seeing the cards in his mind and wishes Lydia weren’t off in London gallivanting about with Jackson.  He could use her ability to look past the bullshit when he gets mired down in the minutiae.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Yeah?”  His dad is giving him a lifted eyebrow that would rival Derek’s.

 

“Sit down and eat something.”

 

“Yep.”  Stiles flops down into one of the chairs as the Sheriff stands up from the table.  He comes back just a few moments later with a mug of coffee and a plate of eggs and toast.

 

Stiles brightens up at the sight of it.  “Hey, awesome.”  He digs in with gusto while his dad pours himself another cup of coffee.  He’s dressed for work and clearly getting ready to go.

 

“What are you doing today?” The Sheriff asks, leaning back against the counter.

 

“Probably gonna hang with Scott for a while.  Allison has a brood of children to tutor today and Isaac is probably going to be with.  Besides, I’m pretty sure Mr. Argent gets annoyed when we crash at his place.”  Stiles appreciates all of Chris’ help, especially now that Chris isn’t actively trying to kill his best friend or Derek, but he’s still sort of terrified of the man.  Just a little.  Just enough that he’d rather they didn’t hang out in Allison’s room if it can be helped.

 

“By hang out do you mean be underfoot at the vet clinic without offering any assistance at all?”

 

Stiles grins around his mouthful of eggs.  “Never.”

 

The Sheriff rolls his eyes in fond exasperation.  “Deaton must really like you.”

 

“I’m very likeable.”

 

“Uh-huh.  Did you manage to find time in your oh so busy summer schedule to talk to Derek about the hikers?”

 

“Oh, shit.”  Stiles had forgotten to tell his dad about that, although in his defense he’d gotten a little distracted at Derek’s.  By _things_.  “Yeah.  I did.”

 

“And?”

 

“He has no idea yet.”

 

The Sheriff sighs.  “I was hoping they’d be able to pick up on something that the department can’t.”

 

“And they can,” Stiles stresses.  “They will.  Derek knows something’s up.”

 

“Another something new on the chess board?”

 

“Probably,” Stiles agrees, a little wearily.  “We just don’t know _what_ , but we’re working on it.”

 

“We?”

 

Stiles flushes.  “The pack,” he clarifies.   “Derek.  Scott.  Me.  The whole pack.  We’re working on it.”  He thinks about the other day and how close he’d been standing to Derek, shoulders brushing.  And before that, waking on the sofa to find Derek keeping watch over him after the magical surge knocked him out.  The strong arm that had slid around his back, helping him sit up, and the heat of Derek’s body seeping into him, easing his aching muscles.  Stiles feels himself flushing at the memory and he shifts a little on the chair.

 

“Mhmm.”  The Sheriff looks entirely too knowing, smirking over the rim of his coffee mug.  “Well, if you guys figure anything out, you be sure to let me know ASAP.  The guys at the station are getting a little antsy about the whole thing.”

 

“Worried the feds are going to move in again?”  Stiles laughs at the growl that comes from his dad, so reminiscent of what he hears from Derek.

 

“All right, I’m going.”  The Sheriff drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug in the sink.  “Are you home for dinner?”

 

“No idea.”

 

“Well, let me know.  And if you find yourself wanting something to do later…”

 

“Yeah, yeah.  I’m the station’s slave labor.  I get it.  Go to work.”  Stiles gestures to the door with his fork, flinging little bits of egg in the process.

 

“Yes, son.”  The Sheriff pats Stiles’ shoulder as he walks past, heaving for the front door.  “Don’t get into too much trouble!”  He calls out over his shoulder.

 

“Oh, that’s sort of asking for the moon, isn’t it?” Stiles murmurs as the door shuts behind his dad.

 

***

 

Stiles rolls up into the parking lot of the vet clinic an hour or so later.  He’d flipped another tarot card over as he was tugging some clean clothes on.  This time the card had been The Moon, full and frowning in the sky as a wolf and a dog howled up at it.  Stiles had rubbed the edge of the card with his thumb and felt a strange sense of foreboding in his chest, but he’d shaken it off and shoved the deck in his pocket.

 

Scott is standing behind the front counter, filling out some paperwork, when Stiles comes through the front door.

 

“How do you get back there if the counter is laced with mountain ash?” He asks by way of greeting.

 

“Carefully,” Scott responds, grinning.  “Not helping your dad at the station today?”

 

Stiles shrugs.  “Nah.  Maybe later.”  He’ll probably go later.  “Wanted to talk to you about the missing hikers.”  Stiles lifts himself up onto the counter, ignoring the pointed look Scott shoots him.

 

“Oh yeah?  Did you talk to Derek?”

 

“Yeah, he doesn’t know anything yet.” Stiles pauses.  “But I think I have an idea about those hikers.”

 

“Thank god!” Scott exclaims, throwing his pen down onto the counter.  “Because I’m fucking _stumped_.  Like.  Derek and Peter and I scoured that whole area and all I could smell was dirt.  And rabbits.  And shit.  A lot of shit, Stiles.  So much shit I’m never going to be able to smell properly again.”

 

“I’m very sorry about the shitty smell of the Beacon Hills trails.  Can we get back to my point?”

 

Scott makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture and Stiles kicks his heels against the counter.

 

“So…” Stiles steals himself against the inevitable reaction to what he’s about to say.  “I think it’s Mrs. Hutchinson.”

 

Scott’s whole face scrunches into a confused frown.  “Who?”

 

“The new guidance counselor at the high school.”

  
“We have a new guidance counselor?”

 

“Dude, she started like three months before the end of the year.  Right around when the first hiker went missing.”  Stiles drums his fingers on the countertop, waiting for Scott’s response.

 

It’s still so incredibly stupid that Stiles is embarrassed he even thought of it.  But it’s not like stranger things haven’t happened around them.  It’s not like more unassuming people haven’t turned out to be raging psychotic murderous lunatics.  (Okay so maybe Stiles still isn’t over the whole Jennifer thing and maybe he has a deep-seeded distrust for any new faculty at Beacon Hills High School, but can anyone really blame him?)  Would this be so different?

 

Scott is still wearing that confused look he gets when he’s trying to figure out if Stiles is being serious or just fucking with him. “You mean the 77-year-old grandmother of four who wears her glasses on a beaded chain around her neck and smells faintly of gardenias?”

 

“Gardenias?”

 

“It’s a very distinctive smell.”

 

“Whatever.  I just, I think she’s gotta be involved somehow.”  Stiles snatches up the pen that Scott threw down, twirling it around and around.  The deck of tarot cards is heavy in his pocket.  “I _feel_ like she is.”

 

Because if she’s involved, then they have someone they can investigate.  They have something concrete and real they can go after.  They have a bad guy to attack and defeat.  And if they have a bad guy to hunt down then maybe no one else will go missing on their watch.  Maybe they can stop this now.  No one else has to die.

 

“I don’t think she’s involved,” Scott rejects, shaking his head and Stiles huffs in exasperation.

 

“Dude, come on.  Just go with me on this.”

 

“We didn’t smell any gardenias out on the trails,” Scott points out.  Stiles can tell that Scott wants to believe him, wants to be on his side, but just can’t.  Not with the complete lack evidence he has.  Maybe he should have taken this to Derek first.

 

“Scott.”

 

“Stiles,” Scott puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and it feels nothing like when Derek does it.  “You know you’re my brother, but your…intuition or whatever isn’t enough to go by.  What are we going to do?  Walk up to this potentially murderous old lady and ask her if she’s kidnapping random hikers off of trails without leaving any trace whatsoever?”

 

Stiles presses his lips together.  “…maybe?”

 

“And then what?  If she’s the one doing this, then she’s not human.  And we have no idea what she is, other than a frail grandmother.  So we’d have no idea of the situation we’d be walking into, no idea of what we’re up against.  No way to defend ourselves.”

 

Stiles kicks the counter again, more petulantly than before.  He should have known this was how it was going to go.  The tarot cards are stupid.  He knows it.  But they’re still trying to tell him something.  He knows that too.  “I just want to help.”

 

“You _do_ help.”

 

“Apparently I’m not helping now.”

 

“Well…you can help me clean out the cat cages?  Before you hit up the police station?”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but swings his legs over the counter and follows Scott into the back of the clinic.  He touches the lump of his pocket, where the tarot deck sits.  He still thinks Mrs. Hutchinson is a lead; he just needs to come up with better proof.  That’s all.

 

***

 

Except Stiles is wrong.  He is completely and utterly wrong, which he only figures out when Isaac nearly gets to lead to his death by a Will o’ the Wisp.

 

It’s early in the evening, just past dusk and the first stars are coming out, when he gets the call.  He’s down in the archives of the sheriff’s station, filing away because he doesn’t really have anything better to do and he does sort of feel like he owes his father for all of the shit he’s put him through, he gets an incoming call from Derek.

 

It’s not the new guidance counselor.  And it’s not a new alpha pack.  It’s not anything as mundane as easy as a vampire or another kanima, or as complicated as a flesh and blood human mass murderer.

 

It’s a goddamn Will o’ the Wisp.

 

“Like.  We’re talking straight up Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual shit, right?” Stiles asks, incredulously.  He’s in one of the bedrooms on the second floor of Derek’s house, standing at the foot of the bed that Isaac is laying on.  He’d come running the moment Derek had told him over the phone, in a gruff, broken voice, that they’d found what was happening to the hikers, and that Isaac had been hurt.  Stiles is fairly certain he’d broken half a dozen traffic laws in his panic and haste to get to Derek’s house, but it’s not like the Sheriff was going to arrest him for it.  Not this time.

 

He’d burst into the house, calling out for Derek, and run into one of the bedrooms to find everyone gathered around the bed where Isaac was lying unconscious and so pale his veins were showing.  He looked like he’s been drained of all of his energy, of his life.  Which, Stiles learns, is exactly what almost happened.

 

A Will o’ the Wisp had appeared in Beacon Hills and begun drawing hikers to it, leading them away from safety with its irresistible light and uncanny magic.  And then draining them completely of their life’s force in order to sustain itself, leeching them dry until nothing at all remained.  Leaving no trace of its victim behind save for a grieving family and a confused law enforcement.

 

“Ignis fatuus,” Peter says, gravely.  And entirely unhelpfully.

 

“Okay.  Okay, but I thought those things were just, you know, folklore.”  Stiles tucks his arms around himself, hands suddenly cold, and takes an not entirely unconscious step towards Derek, who is standing utterly still next to him.  Stiles doesn’t bother asking how they destroyed it.  He doesn’t care.  He’s assuming claws and fangs and brute force.

 

“And two years ago you thought werewolves were just myth too.”

 

“Helpful as fucking always, Peter,” Stiles snaps, eyes flashing.  “Thank you.”  Peter has the decency not to smirk.

 

“How did you find him in time?”

 

“We heard his howl,” Scott responds, voice pitched low.  He’s standing near the head of the bed with one hand on Isaac’s shoulder.  Isaac isn’t feeling any pain, they think, but the contact seems to help anyway.  Maybe it’s just helping them.  At least it doesn’t hurt. Allison is standing on the other side of the bed, almost as pale and holding Isaac’s hand tightly.  The twin are hovering it the background, brows furrowed in concern, and Stiles hates that there’s an empty space around the bed for Lydia and Jackson.

 

Derek looks, well, Stiles hasn’t seen Derek this shaken since Boyd and Erica.  He wants to slip his hand into Derek's and tangle their fingers together.

 

“I didn’t think these things actually killed anyone.  Aren’t they just supposed to, like, lead people to danger?”  Stiles stops.  His mouth falls open.  Understanding hits him like a bolt to the gut.  “Oh god.”

 

“What?”  Scott asks and Stiles can feel Derek turning towards him.

 

“The tarot cards.  I saw this.  I did.  I just didn’t know.  Oh fuck.”  His heart is racing and his breathing is starting to come shorter and faster.

 

“What are you talking about?” Allison asks.  Her eyes are soft with concern.

 

Stiles takes a step back.  He feels completely useless and utterly stupid.  Not only did he not help at all, but he actively helped to _hurt_ someone.  His friend.  He almost got Isaac killed because he didn’t know enough.  He’s supposed to be the one who _knows_.  The one how puts it together before anyone else.  It’s what he does.

 

“I should have seen this coming,” he breathes raggedly.  “I did see it.  I did.”  
  
“Stiles,” Derek intones.  “Come with me.”  Stiles feels hands on his upper arms, gently drawing him out of the room and into the hall, away from the confused eyes of the rest of the pack.  He goes easily.

 

“Somehow,” Stiles continues, once he’s safely alone with Derek in the hallway.  “In the cards.  I should have…they were telling me something, Derek, I know it.”  Stiles wants to scream at the woman who gave him the goddamn deck.  “But I fucked up.  I was wrong.  And Isaac…”

 

“Isn’t your fault,” Derek growls.  He squeezes Stiles’ arms and Stiles feels thumbs stroking gently across his biceps.  Another time he’d worry about what that might mean.  “And Isaac is _fine_ ,” Derek continues.  His eyes are burning bright and Stiles can’t look away from them.  “He’s here.  He’s alive.  He’s fine.”

 

“I should have gone up there.  Looked around.  Maybe I could have felt the energy of it, you know?  Felt the magic of the Wisp.  Gotten an idea.  Anything.  God I’m so stupid.  The _guidance counselor_ , Derek.  I actually thought it was the fucking guidance counselor.”  Stiles balls his hands into fists and desperately wants to strike the walls.  Derek must be able to sense it, what his body wants to do, because his hands tighten around Stiles’ arms, holding him steady.

 

“You couldn’t have known,” Derek says.

 

“I should have.  I’m the one who’s supposed to figure shit out.  I’m the one who puts the fucking pieces together.  That’s what I do.  How am I supposed to help when I can’t even do that?  I’m not good for _anything_ else.  I don’t have anything else.  I’ve got a bat and a computer and my brain.  That’s it.  How am I supposed to be a part of the pack when I can’t-”

 

“Stiles!” The growl that emanates from Derek’s shivers across Stiles’ skin, shutting him up.  “You don’t have to know everything.  No one expects you to know everything.”

 

Stiles snorts in disbelief, dropping his gaze to the floor.

 

“Stiles.  Look at me.”

 

Stiles lifts his eyes to Derek’s and finds them gone dark and intense.  His stomach tightens involuntarily and he swallows.  Derek is so close and Stiles can see the pattern of his beard and the little lines at the corners of his eyes.  He wants to kiss the frown from Derek’s mouth, the frown he helped put there.

 

“You are a part of his pack whether or not you contribute another damn thing _ever_ ,” Derek says.  “You are a part of this pack because you _are_ , not because of what you do.  Do you understand me?”

 

Stiles nods jerkily.  His heart is in his throat and he’s sure Derek can smell what must be a noxious mix of panic and lust and cold sweat.

 

This would be the moment for a hug, Stiles knows.  And he wants it.  He does.  As much as he wants to kiss Derek.  But he can’t.  Derek is still holding him by the arms, but he’s not pulling him in.  But he’s not pushing him away either.  He can hear Derek breathing a little heavily and his hands are so incredibly warm through Stiles’ t-shirt.  He only now realizes that he didn’t even bring a jacket.

 

“So, what do we do?”  Stiles asks, when the silence stretches just a little too long.  “About Isaac.”

 

“We wait.  He needs rest.  Deaton is going to rustle up some sort of concoction that’s supposed to help speed this his healing up.  He just needs to get his energy back.  He’s gong to be just fine.”

 

“Can I help?”

 

“Yes,” Derek answers.  “By being there for him.  Deaton thinks Isaac will unconsciously draw energy from the pack to heal himself.  So be here for him.”

 

Stiles imagines that Derek is thinking, “ _for me too_.”

 

Stiles nods.  “Okay.”

 

They stay that night in Derek’s house, all of them together under one roof.  Derek, Stiles, Scott, Isaac, Allison, the twins.  Even Peter.  Allison and Scott crawl into the bed with Isaac and the twins collapse onto a couple of chairs while everyone grows tired, utterly exhausted by the day and their concern for Isaac.  They get Lydia and Jackson up on Skype and no one laughs when Jackson falls asleep in the background before anyone else.

 

When everyone else has dropped into sleep (and Peter has disappeared to another room in the house), Stiles is drowsing on his feet, leaning against a wall.  Derek rouses him and leads him across the hallway into another room.  Stiles goes easily, letting himself be guided by Derek’s strong hands.

 

Were Stiles more awake he’d compliment Derek on his continued furnishing of the house, the added touches of gorgeous paintings on the walls and rugs on the floors.  He’ll do it another time, when he’s more aware.  But when Derek gently guides him into the bed, Stiles is glad that he’s not so out of it that he can’t keep himself from mumbling that he wishes he were in Derek’s bed instead of this strange one.  He still doesn’t even know where Derek’s bedroom is.  He wants to though.  Stiles rubs his cheek against the pillowcase and tries not to think about the all the things he wants.

 

Derek is lingering at the edge of the bed, fingers picking at the comforter (Stiles grows a little warm at the thought of Derek doing something as mundane as going to the store and shopping for linens), and Stiles stupidly wants to ask him to get into bed with him.  He still feels shaky about what happened with Isaac and the Wisp and he just wants the comfort of knowing that Derek is right there.  But he can’t ask.  Not for this, not when couldn’t ask for a hug and won’t ask for a kiss.

 

Stiles curls into the blankets and tries to pretend like he doesn’t feel Derek tucking him in.

  
“You’re a good pack leader,” Stiles mumbles.  “Even if you’re not the alpha.”  He thinks Derek ought to be told that more often, if he’s ever told it at all.  And judging by the way Derek goes still and sucks in a sharp, shocked breath, he’s not.  But Derek keeps them all together, keeps them going even when it might be easier, and safer, not to be.

 

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek mutters softly, instead of a thank you, but Stiles wouldn’t have expected one anyway.  Although Derek’s voice holds a note of gratitude and of surprise.

 

“G’night.”  He doesn’t hear Derek cross the room, but he does hear the soft snick of the door closing as he falls asleep.  It feels unfinished, but that’s nothing new.

 

***

 

He doesn’t stay asleep though.  Stiles wakes with a gasp, woken up from a dream about a bright light drawing him away from the safety of a big house in the woods.  He lies there, trying to calm his breathing and slow his heart.  He knows why he dreamt what he did, but it doesn’t make it any easier.  His phone tells him it’s past 3 o’clock in morning and Stiles knows he won’t be able to go back asleep right away, not with the sweat cooling on his skin and his mind still full of the image of that guiding white light.  He gets out of bed.

 

The house is silent as Stiles creeps down the staircase to the first floor and pads along the hallway into the kitchen.  He loves this house already.  The floorboards don’t creak and the windows are thick against the outside world.  It feels like the house is shelter against everything in the world.  And as Derek picks out more furnishings and decorations, it’s quickly, if quietly, becoming a home.

  
Stiles runs his fingers along the door frame as he steps into the kitchen.  The wood grain is smooth and cool under his skin.  At some point Derek had bought himself dishes and a coffee pot and Stiles leans against the counter, staring out of a window to the dark forest beyond the property, as the coffee brews.  The smell reminds him of his dad.

 

He hates that no matter that they do, there are dangerous things in that forest and he wants to find a way to help protect Derek’s home from that threat.  In whatever way he can.  He thinks again about the runes he’d started learning about with Deaton and their potential power.  He’ll call Deaton that day and finish what he started.  He can’t fail again the way he failed Isaac.

 

“Is there something wrong with the room?”

 

Stiles startles at Derek’s voice, coming soft and concerned from the entryway to the kitchen.  He’d swear at Derek for constantly sneaking up on him, but it’s no use.

 

“No, it’s fine.” Stiles turns away from the window.  Derek is wearing pajama pants and nothing else.  Stiles doesn’t bother trying to hide the way his eyes flicker down to Derek’s nipples to the solid line of his collarbone to the cut of his hips.  It’s not like it matters.

 

“So, why aren’t you in it?”  Derek approaches the kitchen counter and Stiles can’t look away from his bare feet.  He seems oddly naked like this.  Vulnerable.  The intimacy of it catches in Stiles’ chest.

 

“I just can’t sleep,” Stiles shrugs.

 

“Is the bed too hard?”  He takes a step closer to Stiles.

 

“No, seriously, it’s fine.  No peas under the mattresses.”  Stiles smiles softly.

 

“Is there a draft?”  Derek seems personally affronted that Stiles can’t sleep.

 

“Derek, the room is perfect,” Stiles reassures.  “You built a solid home, dude.”  It’s the absolute truth and Derek preens a little at the comment, as much as Derek ever preens.

 

“I just can’t sleep is all.  With…everything.”  Stiles shrugs.  Derek makes a noise like he understands and not for the first time Stiles wonders how many sleepless nights Derek suffers through, lying alone in his room with the ghosts of his past casting shadows on the walls.  Derek looks away and Stiles is pretty sure he’s thinking about it too.

 

Stiles follows Derek’s gaze to the deck of tarot cards that’s sitting on the counter.  Stiles frowns.  He hadn’t even realized he’d brought them down to the kitchen with him.

 

“I should just throw them out,” Stiles says, only half-joking.

 

Stiles watches as Derek reaches for the cards, shuffling them with ease in his big hands.

 

“Play a lot of poker?” Stiles asks, sipping his coffee and trying to push down the strange feeling rising up in him at the sight of someone else handling his cards.

 

“Mostly gin rummy,” Derek quips, with that practiced seriousness that Stiles has come to recognize as Derek setting up a joke.  “Peter was the one always a little too into strip poker.”

 

Stiles snorts.  “Of course.”  Derek’s lips twitch in a little smile and he glances over at Stiles.  In the dim lighting of the kitchen, his eyes are almost black.

 

Derek places the tarot deck down on the counter.  Stiles watches, holding his breath, as he slowly turns the first card over: The Hanged Man.  Stiles stares at the drawing of a man in a blue shirt hanging upside down from a tree.  It seems ominous, worrisome even, but Derek’s face shows nothing but calm.  Stiles tries to remember what it means, but his mind has gone blank.  Derek turns the second card over and Stiles’ heart skips and then beats a little faster, which he knows Derek hears.  It’s a card he’s seen before: The Magician.  On the front is an image of a tall man wearing a bright red cloak, an infinity symbol floating above his head.  Stiles swears he hears Derek draw in a sharp breath.

 

Derek’s fingers hover over the deck for a moment, as though nervous about what might come next, before he quickly turns the third card over, placing it down next to the other two.  The Two of Cups.  Derek makes a soft noise from the back of his throat and Stiles has nothing to say.  On the card is a drawing of two people facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes.  Each of them hold a cup.

 

Stiles remembers those cards from Derek’s books, their possible meanings.  The act of faith of the Hanged Man.  His willingness to let go.  And the magic and force of the Magician.  The reminder that thought and will and intent can become reality.  Stiles hands are trembling around the coffee mug and he sets it down before he drops it.

 

And the Two of Cups.  Love.  Partnership.  The card is unmistakable.  And what it means drawn after the other two.

 

Stiles swallows past the heavy lump in his throat and he knows Derek can smell the crushing nerves and rising hope pouring off of him.  When he looks up from the counter, Derek is staring right at him.  His eyes are still dark, but Stiles can see a flash of blue around the edges.  And there’s an intensity in them that makes Stiles’ heart thud painfully.  The same strange hope beating hard in Stiles’ stomach seems reflected on Derek’s face.  It’s there lifting his eyebrows every so slightly, softening the corners of his mouth.  Stiles licks his lips.  Anyone else and he’d lean across the counter to kiss that mouth.  Anyone else and he would just let go and believe.

 

But Stiles has misinterpreted the spread of cards before.  He’s fucked up before and someone close to him nearly died because of it.  He’s not going to make that kind of mistake again.  He can’t afford to, especially not when it comes to Derek.  Derek is too important to him.

 

“I, uh.”  Stiles turns away and puts his mug in the sink.  “I should try and get some sleep.”  He feels like a fool and a coward.  He probably is.

 

“Goodnight, Derek.” He mumbles as he walks past Derek, keeping his head down so he doesn’t have to see whatever is etched across Derek’s face in that moment.

 

The bed is cold when Stiles makes it back up to the borrowed bedroom and Stiles doesn’t sleep at all.


	5. Lights Up the Night

Stiles bursts into the strange, nameless little magic shop off of Main Street with far more force than is probably strictly necessary.  The door bangs into the wall, rattling the glass cases of herbs and teas and charms.  He winces, but keeps walking.  Stiles is angry and he wants the witch that runs this place to know it.  He’d waited until a semi-decent hour before slipping out Derek’s house.  He’s sure Derek heard it when he left, but no one came to ask him where he was going.  They all had Isaac to check up on anyway.

 

He spots Sabina standing at the edge of the front counter, almost as if she’s waiting for him.  She’s wearing a long, flowing white dress and has a flower tucked into her long hair (wolfsbane, maybe,) and in that moment Stiles hates her just a little bit.

 

“You.  Your cards are _bullshit_ ,” he announces, almost yells.  Sabina doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see him.

 

“Stiles,” she greets, too calmly.  Her mismatched eyes regard him with a mixture of amusement and coolness.

 

“Your stupid fucking cards almost got my friend _killed_.”  He digs the pack of cards out of his pocket and throws them across the countertop.  They slide to a stop just in front of Sabina.

 

“Really.”

 

“Yes!” Stiles explodes, throwing his hands up.  “They showed me these, these _things_ , but I didn’t have enough information.  I didn’t know enough.  And Isaac almost died.”  Stiles feels sick remembering it.  He tries not to see Isaac’s pale form lying on the bed.

 

“You didn’t understand,” Sabina says, infuriatingly.

 

“Your fucking cards didn’t say anything at all about a goddamn Will o’ the Wisp.  _Nothing_.”  Stiles wishes he’d never walked into this fucking shop at all.  He wishes he’d done something else that morning, instead of coming into town.  Maybe then this searing guilt wouldn’t be eating a hole in his stomach.

 

“That’s because you weren’t asking about the right question to give you those answers.  You were asking a different question, and the cards gave you _that_ answer.”  Her calm is infuriating.

 

“I wasn’t asking any questions!”

 

“You were,” Sabina counters.  “We’re always asking questions.  But some are silent and come from our hearts.  _Think_.”

 

Stiles blinks and remembers the first cards he’d turned over.  The Fool.  The 8 of Wands.  The Knight of Cups.

 

 _Oh_.  But there’s no way those cards mean what he now thinks they might.

 

“Well, that’s not what I fucking needed!”

 

Sabina rolls her eyes in the loudest look of exasperation Stiles has seen in a long time.  “You’re a fool, Mr. Stilinski.”

 

“Hey!”

 

She pushes the deck of cards back towards him.  “You need to learn to _read_ the cards.  To understand the advice and answers they’re trying to give you.” 

 

“I’m trying,” Stiles stresses.

 

“You’re _not_.”

 

“I am!”

 

“But you’re not _seeing_!”  It’s the first time Sabina has truly raised her voice and Stiles feels a shockwave of power emanate from her.  He remembers the chain around her neck and how it glowed with power when Stiles reached out with his spark.

 

“If you tell me to open my third eye I swear to god…”

 

Sabina blinks slowly.  “And would that be the strangest thing you’ve ever had to do?  You created more mountain ash when the need was great.”

 

Stiles’ mouth drops open and he takes a shocked step back.  “How do you know about that?” But Sabina doesn’t answer the question.

 

“You’ve seen a man turn into a wolf,” she presses.  “You’ve created fire with your will.  All I’m asking you to do is _see_.  Is that really the most difficult thing you’ve ever encountered in this world?”

 

Stiles feels the fight go out of him and he slumps against he counter.  He’s really glad no one else in town seems to ever come into this store.  “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

 

“You need to look closer, not farther away.”

 

“The fuck does that mean?” Stiles snaps tiredly.  He kind of just wants to crawl back into bed.

 

“Stiles,” Sabrina chastises.  “Come here.”

  
Stiles rolls his head towards her and narrows his eyes.  “Why?  Are you going to curse me into a rabbit?”

 

“Not today, Mr. Stilinski.” Sabina smiles gently.  “Please.  Just come here.”

 

Stiles pushes himself up and takes a few steps towards her.  “I’m here.”

 

Sabina nods at the deck of tarot cards that Stiles had, admittedly, rudely thrown at her just minutes before.

  
“Yeah?”

 

“Shuffle the deck.”

 

Stiles sighs and thinks about arguing, but doesn’t bother.  He snatches up the deck and shuffles it through a couple of times.

 

“Clear your mind of everything but the _most_ important thing,” Sabina tells him.

 

“What?”

 

“Do it.”

 

Stiles takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and keeps shuffling.  He reaches down for the spark, for the thing that helps him focus when his mind begins to race out of control.

 

“Just the most important thing,” Sabina reminds him, her voice pitched soft and soothing, and Stiles nods.

 

He finds the spark, waiting for him like always, and lets it slowly begin fill him.  He sees a flash of blue behind his eyelids.  And the dark wood a carved banister.  The smooth curve of a naked collarbone.  And the tops of moonlit trees.

 

Stiles gasps and opens his eyes.

 

“Did you find it?” Sabina asks, blinking her peculiar eyes at him, and Stiles just nods dumbly.  “Then flip over the card.”

 

He does so with nerveless fingers.  It’s the Knight of Cups.  Stiles doesn’t know why he isn’t the least bit surprised.

 

“Reshuffle and do it again,” Sabina demands and Stiles obeys wordlessly.  His fingers are trembling just a little.

 

The Knight of Cups shows itself.  Again.  Stiles’ mouth is dry and his heart is racing.

 

“Again,” Sabina urges.

 

Stiles shuffles and turns the top card and again it’s the Knight of Cups.  Stiles places his palm over the card, hiding the image.

 

“Do you know what this card means?” Sabina asks.

 

“I…I don’t know.”  But it’s a lie.  Stiles remembers it from Derek’s books clearly.  The knight is the spirit of romance.  He is the lover.

 

Stiles’ lungs go empty.  The shop is suddenly cloying and oppressive.  The walls are too close and the herbs and charms on the shelves are all at once full of danger and dark promises.  He needs to get the fuck out.

 

“I have to go,” he states, pushing away from the counter.  “I, uh, have an appointment.  With someone else.  Who is not you.”  Stiles blindly makes his way for the door, leaving the deck of cards behind.

 

“Stiles!” Sabina calls out, just as Stiles is pushing the door open.  “You’re not someone who runs,” she tells him.  “So don’t start now.”

 

But Stiles keeps walking.

 

***

 

Stiles walks around the town for hours, trying to pull himself together.  Everything is a jumbled confusion inside of him that his spark can’t control.  And he hates it.  He hates Sabina for giving him those cards and he hates that goddamn magic shop for suddenly catching his attention and he hates that fucking Will o’ the Wisp for trying to kill his friend.

 

And Stiles kind of hates Derek just for being _Derek_ , because if Derek weren’t exactly who he is, then none of this would be a problem.

 

Then Stiles could just be a kid in a small town trying to escape high school, trying to go on a few dates with normal boys and girls, trying to make his dad proud and not embarrass himself too much in process of accomplishing all those things.  But he can’t just do those things.  Because there’s Derek.

 

Derek.

 

Stiles almost runs into a light post.  It always comes down Derek, doesn’t it?  It’s always been Derek.  And maybe he’s known it all the while, but he couldn’t see it.  How could he?  Derek is _Derek_ and he’s just Stiles.  The kid who couldn’t even read some tarot cards correctly.

 

Stiles ends up sitting in a coffee shop for an hour just staring blankly into a cup of rapidly cooling coffee.

 

He gets a text from Scott asking if he’s okay and Stiles’ lets him know that he is.  (Even if it’s sort of a lie because goddamn it he’s _not_ okay.  Scott can’t hear a lie over text messages.)  He finds out that Isaac is awake and doing better and that helps some.  Deaton had come by Derek’s house with some sort of herbal tea for Isaac and it seems to be aiding the process.  His color is returning and so is his smile.  Stiles is grateful even if it makes that dark guilt in his gut flare up again.

 

Deaton.  Stiles suddenly remembers the runes he’d started working on, and the promise he’d made to Derek that he would do a little more research on them before attempting to ward Derek’s house.  Stiles might have fucked up the tarot cards, but he’s not going to fuck up the runes.  That much he promises himself.

 

He drains the last of the coffee, wincing at the cool temperature of it, and heads for the veterinary clinic.

 

***

 

Deaton is with a patient when he gets there – a feisty cat with a broken leg who glares balefully at Stiles when he walks into the exam room without knocking or asking or anything.  So Stiles waits in the uncomfortable chairs in the lobby and fills in a two-year old _Highlights_ magazine that some kid has already scribbled all over.  Deaton really needs to update his reading material.

 

“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton finally appears from the back.  “To what do I own the pleasure?”  He looks not at all surprised to see Stiles in his waiting room without Scott.

 

“I need to practice the runes we talked about before,” Stiles states.

 

“Okay.”  Deaton folds his arms across his chest.

 

“I’m tired of feeling like I only know half of things, just enough to get people hurt,” Stiles continues.  He remembers Isaac’s pale face and still body.  “I don’t want to get the people I care about hurt.”

 

“You mean Derek.”

 

Stiles startles.  “What?  I-”

 

“You want to ward _Derek’s_ house.”

 

“How do you know that?”  Stiles doesn’t think his…infatuation, or whatever this is, is so horribly obvious that people can see it just by looking at him.  But he’s been wrong about things before.

 

“Scott told me.”  There’s a hint of smugness on Deaton’s face that Stiles doesn’t like at all.

 

“Goddamnit, Scott.”  Stiles sighs.  “Yes, I want to.  Or at least I want to try.  Will you help me?”

 

“I’ve got a few books here.  And I know of a few others.  But Stiles, something like what you want to do for Derek’s house requires more than just knowledge.  It requires practice.  The runes themselves are easy to figure out, overall.  But you need to be sure you have them written correctly, or else they won’t work.  And could actually cause harm.”

 

Stiles nods.  “I know.  But I need to do this.”

 

“All right then.”

 

Stiles spends the rest of the afternoon in Deaton’s back room, pouring over the books on runes he just so happened to have lying around.  Stiles is never quite sure how Deaton tends to have almost everything they need.  When it starts to get dark, he calls his dad to let him know that he’s busy working on something for Derek and probably won’t be home for dinner.  The sly little “okay, Stiles” he gets in return makes him blush.  His dad _must_ know.  There’s no way he can’t.

 

But Deaton’s books aren’t quite what he needs.  He know what kind of ward he wants to set up around Derek’s house, and he knows, generally, which runes he needs to use, but he’s changing the standard enchantment to work better for Derek’s house, and Deaton’s books keep referencing another text that he doesn’t have.

 

“I think I need a different book,” Stiles says.  He getting a little tired of the first books he reads on a subject not being the one he really needs.

 

“You should ask Derek,” Deaton intones from the doorway.  The way he says it makes Stiles think that was Deaton’s intention all along.

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me to fuck off and go to Derek first?”

 

“I wanted to be sure this is what you really wanted,” Deaton responds coolly.  “This isn’t something to be played at.”

 

Stiles nods in resigned agreement.  He grabs his phone from his pocket and doesn’t miss how his other pocket is alarmingly empty of the tarot cards he’d left at Sabina’s store.

 

He brings the last texts he sent to Derek up.  He shouldn’t be nervous about this, but he is.  It’s just a text, but it’s not.  After what happened in Derek’s kitchen in the dark hours of the morning, Stiles worries that everything he says to Derek is somehow laced with extra significance.  But when he thinks about it, Stiles realizes there’s always been an undercurrent of extra meaning threaded between them.  He’s just been too blind to see it.

 

 _Got any books on runes?_   He texts to Derek.  It doesn’t take long to get a response.

 

**_I’m not a library_.**

 

That makes him smile, despite the last day of emotional warfare.

 

 _Be there in 30._   He texts back and Derek doesn’t tell him no.

 

***

 

The front door is unlocked when Stiles gets to the house and Stiles would chide Derek about safety protocols, except he gets the feeling that Derek unlocked the door just for him.  He doesn’t even try to push down he warm surge he gets in his stomach at the thought.

 

The house feels empty when he steps inside and Stiles assumes everyone finally cleared out and took Isaac home.

 

“Derek?”  He calls out, peeking into the living room and finding it empty.  His gaze lingers for a moment on the comfortable couch where he’d woken up after collapsing when he’d unconsciously tried to ward Derek’s house without any runes to work off of.  He smiles at the memory of Derek’s arm around his back, holding him close.  It feels like a lifetime ago already.

 

“Down here!” Derek’s voice echoes up from the room at the end of the hall, the room that was previously always behind a locked door.  Stiles’ curiosity ratchets up about 140% and wipes away the lingering nerves that had built up on the drive over from the clinic.

 

Stiles makes his way down the hallway, noting the couple piece of artwork that Derek has put up on the walls.  The paintings look old, the frames hand carved and the paint a little faded, and Stiles is sure they’re probably old family relics.  He wants to know so much more about Derek’s family.  Maybe soon he’ll be able to ask.

 

When he comes around the edge of the doorframe and peers into the room, Stiles stops dead in his tracks.

 

It’s a library.  An honest-to-god library.  Stiles gapes at the room – his mouth hanging open unattractively and pulse racing for reasons for once entirely beyond fear or attraction.  The walls are lined with big solid bookcases that Stiles would bet money are handmade.  The shelves aren’t full yet, but Stiles can see that Derek has begun to arrange books on them.  And they aren’t just any old books.

 

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathes, walking right up to one of the cases, barely noticing Derek, who is standing at a table.

 

The bookcases hold indices and codices and volumes that look positively ancient.  The covers are leather and paper and calfskin and some look singed by fire and others warped by water.  There’s a copy of the Argent’s bestiary that looks older than the one in Chris’ house, and another bestiary next to it that looks even bigger, full of more information.  Some of the titles are in Spanish, others in German, and Stiles is pretty sure at least half of them are in Latin.  This is what research heaven must look like and Stiles is not even a little embarrassed by the way his pants have gotten a little tighter than they were a minute ago.  He aches to get his hands on _everything_.

 

“Oh my god,” he breathes out, in awe.  “You’ve been collecting them.  All of these books.”  He reaches out to touch the cracked spine of one of them, but stops himself.   “This is where you go when you leave town for a few days.”  Stiles looks back over his shoulder and grins at Derek.  “Scouting missions with Peter _my ass_.”

 

Derek ducks his head to hide what is clearly a smile.  He’s proud of his library, Stiles can tell.  And he has every right to be.  “Don’t act like you haven’t been reaping the benefits of those missions.”

 

Stiles looks at the shelves and sees the gaps in the texts where he assumes the volumes on tarot cards were pulled from.  He feels honored.

 

“Where did you get them all?”  Stiles begins to walk around the large room, catching the titles of some of the texts and feeling anticipation building in his stomach.  He wants to sit in the big, cozy looking chair that’s angled in a corner of the room and read and learn until he explodes.  Fuck school; he’s got Derek’s library.

 

“They’ve been scattered across the country with the other werewolf packs,” Derek responds.  He folds his arms across the chest follows Stiles circuit around the room with his eyes.  “Across the world, even, as the packs traveled and never returned to their ancestral grounds.  It’s taking time to find them, longer still to convince some of the packs to give them up to me.”

 

“But why?” Stiles asks.  “Aside form the obvious fact that these are fucking cool and you should definitely have them for yourself.  But why all the work for them?

 

“Because.  It’s my family’s history.  _My_ history.  Someone has to take care of it.  You can see that some of the books have sustained damage over the years.  I’m trying to stop that from happening.  And then to see the collection passed into good hands.”  Derek looks pointedly at Stiles.

 

That makes Stiles stop.  “Good hands,” he repeats, looking over at Derek.

  
“Yes.”  Derek’s expression is that one Stiles remembers from the night in his kitchen.  The one of hope and nerves.  The one that Stiles thinks is Derek waiting for him to understand something.

 

“But you let _me_ read them,” he protests.  “You give them to me.  You let me take them home where, let’s be honest, they’re sort of imminent danger.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Oh.”  The word escapes him as barely a huff of breath.

 

 _Oh_.  Stiles wants so badly for that to mean what he wants it to mean.  He thinks of Sabina and of the tarot cards.  He thinks about the straight nose and broad shoulders of the Knight of Cups.

 

“How do you convince the other packs to give them up?” He asks, instead of throwing himself across the room at Derek.

 

“I gently remind them that the books technically belong to _me_ , to _my_ pack.  My family name is on some of them.  And if that doesn’t work, well, that’s why I bring Peter.”  Derek’s smirk is a dangerous one.  Stiles has seen it before.  It’s equal parts terrifying and ungodly attractive.  The tightness in his pants really hasn’t gone away at all and he’s sort of okay with it at this point.

 

“You have Peter killing werewolves for you?  For books?”  Yeah, Stiles is really kind of turned on by the whole _thing_ and he doesn’t even care.  The last few days have been utterly insane and if this is his reaction, well, there are worse things.

 

“Of course not.  I have Peter _scaring_ werewolves for me.”

 

Stiles barks a laugh and it makes Derek smile.  A real smile, one that shows his teeth and crinkles the corners of his eyes.  He wonders again what Derek’s reputation with the other packs is like.  He knows Derek doesn’t think himself a good leader, but Stiles remembers the early days of their little pack, and how hard Derek tried to keep everything together, even when everything was so quickly falling apart.

 

“I can’t believe you let me take these out of here.”

 

Derek shrugs, as though it’s no big deal.  But Stiles is pretty sure they both know it is.  “I’d rather see them getting used that growing moldy.”

 

“And I guess there isn’t exactly a werewolf museum these can be stored in.”

  
“Not exactly.”

 

Stiles turns back to the bookshelves.  He notices how cracked some of the spines are, and how yellowed the pages.  “How are you keeping them from falling apart?  Some of these look like they’re hundreds of years old.”

 

“Some are,” Derek agrees.  Stiles feels, rather than hears, Derek coming up next to him.  He feels the heat of Derek’s body against his shoulder and leans into it, just a little bit.  What harm can it do at this point?  “Deaton and Chris are working on some ways to help preserve the books,” Derek continues.

 

“Argent?”

 

Derek nods and reaches out to gently trace the spine of a book that bears an embossed image of what is clearly wolfsbane.  “He understands the value of family history.  More than most.”

  
Stiles can’t argue with that. 

 

“Did you want to keep talking about this, or did you want to grab one of the books?”  Derek asks, but his tone is teasing and Stiles grins.

 

“Both.  But I’ll settle for the book.  I feel like I should have some sort of Hale Library Card or something, like I should be checking these out and promising to return them within two weeks.”

 

“Well, you haven’t returned the other books yet so…” Derek trails off with a little smirk that has Stiles’ heartbeat speeding up enough to be noticeable.

 

“Yeah yeah.”

 

Derek bumps his shoulder companionably before reaching for a book.  “Here.  I don’t need to tell you to be careful with it.”

 

Stiles accepts the book gingerly.  It’s big and heavy and he wants to clutch it to his chest like a schoolboy.  “You really don’t.  I’m good.  We’re good.”  Derek nods.

 

It’s sort of his cue to leave, but he doesn’t want to take it.  He wants to sit in that chair and find the information he needs in this book and practice the runes on that big table under the light of the lamp sitting on it.  He doesn’t want to leave Derek’s house.

 

“I think I’m getting somewhere with the runes though,” he says, clearly stalling.  “For your house.  It’s not really all that complicated, in the end.  But there’s a couple of things I want to tweak to make it certain and I just want to be absolutely certain.”  He taps the book in his hands.  “I’m not gonna fuck this up like Will o’ the Wisp.”

 

Derek’s expression softens ever further.  “Stiles.  Isaac is _fine_.  Scott and Allison took him home this morning.”

 

“I know he is.  But he almost wasn’t.  He almost died.  Because I fucked up over some stupid tarot cards.”  Stiles shakes his head against the memory.  He’ll get over it, some day.

 

“Without the cards we would have had nothing to go on to try and figure out what was going on,” Derek counters. His hands clench at his sides like he’s keeping himself from reaching out for Stiles.  Stiles wishes he wouldn’t stop himself.

 

“But I didn’t know enough.”

 

“We don’t always.  Sometime it’s a leap of-”

 

“Don’t say faith,” Stiles interrupts, smiling a little.

 

“-trust.”  Derek smiles again.

 

“Like the runes?”  Stiles asks.

 

Derek inclines his head.  “Just like them.”

 

Despite himself, Stiles feels himself growing warm with something bordering on hope that whatever is going on with him about Derek, is going on with Derek about him in return.

 

***

 

It’s getting pretty late when Stiles slips out of Derek’s house, clutching the book on runes protectively to his chest as he gets into his jeep.  He wants to go straight home, eat something, and get working on the runes, but he has something he knows he needs to do first.

 

The streets of downtown Beacon Hills are pretty quiet as Stiles drives back to the little unassuming storefront.  It’s harder to find this way, by car, but he spots it, smushed between a Laundromat and the frozen yogurt shop.  Stiles still can’t believe he’d never seen it before and he’s starting to think there’s a reason for that.

  
There’s no sign on the door indicating it being closed or open, but there’s a light on in the back somewhere, glowing through the dusty window, and the door is unlocked when Stiles tries the handle.

 

“Hello?” He calls out softly.  “Sabina?  It’s me.  Stiles.”

 

There’s a rustling of fabric as Sabina appears from a doorway that must lead to a backroom.  Her eyes are sharp, but she doesn’t look angry.  “Mr. Stilinski,” she says, and Stiles is completely chastened by just those two words.

 

“So…I might have been mistaken,” he says, utterly contritely.  He presses his lips together and tries to give her his best hangdog expression, the last one that still works on his dad.  Sometimes.

  
“Really.” Sabina leans casually against the front counter where Stiles can see his abandoned tarot deck is still sitting there.

 

“And I think I sort of owe you an apology.”  Sabina remains quiet and Stiles takes a breath.  “I’m sorry for being such a dick this morning, to you, about the tarot cards.  You were – you have been – only trying to help me.  And I’ve refused to accept that help.  And I’m sorry.”

 

Sabina inclines her head.  “Accepted.”

 

“So,” Stiles hops up onto the counter.  “Can I ask you something?”

 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me since you first walked in here.”

 

Stiles glances around the shop, at the worn wooden walls and the cluttered shelves.  He thinks about how the store feels much older than it could possibly be.  “This store.  It really _wasn’t_ here before, was it?”

 

Sabina’s peculiar eyes sparkle at him, apparently pleased that he’s finally getting it.  “No.”

 

Stiles should be shocked, or at least astounded, but he’s really not.  He just nods and drums his heels against the counter. “How did you…?”

 

“The longing of your hearts drew me here.”  Sabina reaches up and closes her hand around the pendant hanging from the chain around her neck.

 

“My heart is not longing for anything,” Stiles scoffs, even though they both know he’s lying through his teeth.  He needs to work on that.

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

Stiles meets her intense gaze and swallows.  What’s the point in denying the things he’s been pushing down for so long.  “How could you even know about me?”

 

“I go where I’m needed.  To wherever I’m drawn by restless souls and yearning hearts.  Yours, and his, were calling out especially loudly.  So to you I came.”  She shrugs and her smile is really quite pretty, now that she’s not annoyed to death by him.

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles exclaims as it suddenly makes all the sense in the world.  “You’re like a fucked up Cupid.”

 

She frowns and clucks her tongue reproachfully at him.  “I resent that name.”

 

“Sorry.  So, can I ask you something else?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“What _happened_ to you?”  He doesn’t need to explain that he means her mismatched eyes.

 

A far-off look washes over Sabina’s ageless face, not quite pain, not quite sadness. “I was in love with someone, once, but I could never tell him.  I never really told him.  Because I didn’t think he’d want me in return.”  Stiles swallows and he’s pretty sure he knows where this is going.

 

“His mother was a witch,” Sabina continues.  Her thumb strokes over the pendant, an old familiar move.  “She was a very powerful witch, far more than I.  At the time.  And she disapproved of me and my family.  We were of poorer blood, you see.  This was back when those things mattered far more than they do now.  She told her son to stay away from me, but he defied her.  He pledged himself to me right then.  That’s when I knew he returned my feelings.  But it wasn’t to last.  His mother, she…cursed us, my lover and I, to be together forever.  It was what we both wanted, the truth of our hearts, but – as is often the way with love – it can be twisted.  Turned ugly and horrible.”

 

“No.”  Stiles body goes cold as the realization dawns.  “No way.”

 

“Of the two of us, I had the stronger will to live.”  Sabina touches three fingers to her cheek, just below the one blue eye.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“He lives inside of me,” Sabina says.  “Always.  And I carry with me the reminder of him.”

 

Stiles can’t breath for a moment.  “I’m so sorry.”  It’s completely inadequate, but it’s all he knows to say.  The world continues to astound him.

 

“Don’t be, child.” Sabina smiles wistfully.  “This was my punishment for not acknowledging my love, for pushing aside that which was the most important to me because I was afraid.  Don’t be afraid, Stiles.”

 

“So now you…what?  Go around match-making.”

 

“The matches are already made.  I’m just…the last little push.”

 

Stiles nods.  There’s no use in denying that he needed a push.  Or maybe a slap in the face.  “But why the tarot cards?”  He asks, tapping the deck with his fingers.  “Why not a love potion or something?”

 

“Because I thought it would make sense for you.  You’re the one that figures things out.  You solve the riddles.  The cards were supposed to help you solve the puzzle of your heart.”

 

“Yeah, well, there’s no card for emotionally stunted, preternaturally attractive, bearded werewolves with deep-seeded family issues.”

 

Sabina grins at him.  “Yes, but you _did_ figure it out.”

 

“Eventually.”

 

“Oh, it didn’t take so long at all, did it?”

 

Stiles thinks back and frowns when he realizes it’s really only been a week since he first stumbled into the store.  “Oh.”

 

“It’s ok.”  Sabina reaches out and places her hand over Stiles’ where it’s still resting on the tarot deck.  “You were so close because I arrived.”

 

Stiles hums thoughtfully to himself.  Everything suddenly makes so much sense, all the pieces clicking together one by one.  “It’s why you wouldn’t let me pay for the cards, isn’t it?  Because you can’t buy your future.”

 

Sabina laughs delightedly.  “Ah.  He _can_ be taught.”

 

“So now what do I do?”  Stiles asks, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows.  The book of runes is sitting in his jeep and his spark his flaring to use them.

 

“It’s a lot like magic, Mr. Stilinski.  You can _know_ , but if you don’t _believe_ than it doesn’t matter.”

 

Stiles nods and hops off the counter.  He picks up the tarot deck and slips it back into his pocket.  “Thank you, Sabina,” he says and the witch smiles at him again.

 

“I told you not to run.  Now you need to not be afraid.”

 

“I’ll try.”

 

“Good bye, Stiles.”

 

“Bye.” He’s sad to go, but he knows it’s time.  He heads for the front door, casting a small smile back over his shoulder at Sabina before he steps outside.  The door closes softly behind him. 

 

When Stiles turns around one last time, the magic shop is gone, and the Laundromat and the frozen yogurt places have moved closer together, filling in the vacated space, as though it had never been there at all.  Stiles shakes his head in wonder at what his life has become and gets into his Jeep.


	6. All Comes Down To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's for taking a look. Hope you enjoyed it. :)

Stiles spends the next day basically locked in his room using the book from Derek’s library to figure out the missing piece of his runic enchantment, scribbling out the runes over and over again on printer paper.  He’s certain he has the symbols themselves exactly right for the ward he wants to place around Derek’s house, but he needs his hands to know the symbols by rote memory.  He’s going to be concentrating on his spark to imbue the runes with power; he can’t spare the focus to check on the quality of his work.  So he practices.

 

At some point his dad comes to check on him and bring him food, since Stiles has almost completely forgotten about eating.  The Sheriff stares at the avalanche of paper with bizarre symbols written all over them that practically covers Stiles’ bedroom floor and just sighs wearily.

 

“So, this is what you’re working on for Derek?”

 

Stiles looks up at his dad.  “Uhm, yep.”

 

“Is it dangerous?”

 

“Uh, nope.”  Stiles looks around at the paper and realizes how uniform the runes actually are.  He smiles.  “It’s really not,” he said confidentially.  “I’ve got this.  I know what I’m doing.”

  
The Sheriff picks up one of the papers, studying it like it’s a case file.  “As long as you’re sure.”

 

“I am.”  And it’s not an exaggeration at all.  “I’m going to head over to Derek’s soon.  Get this thing finished.”

 

His dad nods like he was expecting nothing less.  “Just remember to eat before you go.”  He nods towards the sandwich he’d brought up for Stiles.

 

“Thanks, dad.”

  
“I guess if I had to pick between werewolves and drugs, I’d pick werewolves every time.”  Stiles grins as the Sheriff shakes his head ruefully and heads back downstairs.  He really loves his dad.

 

Stiles munches on the sandwich as he goes over the runes a few more times.  But they’re perfect.  Every time he draws them they’re perfect, and he can feel his spark starting to rise up in him, knowing that it’s about to be called upon.

 

He’s ready.

 

Stiles grabs his phone with the hand that isn’t currently holding half-eaten sandwich and thumbs a text to Derek.

 

_Are you home?_

 

**Yes.  See you soon.**

 

Stiles grins around his mouthful of ham and cheese.  He’s completely ready.

 

***

 

Derek is waiting for him on the porch of the house when Stiles pulls up next to the Camero in his Jeep.  Stiles grins and waves at him through the windshield and his heart flutters happily when Derek lifts a hand in response.  It’s moving past twilight, but Derek has installed lights along the eaves that help to illuminate the clearing.

 

“Are you ready to do this?” Stiles asks as Derek comes down the stairs towards him.

 

“Are you?”

 

“I am.” Derek is wearing that soft green Henley Stiles loves so and Stiles wants to touch it when he gets close enough.

 

“Okay then.” Stiles rubs his hands together.  “So, I took the runes that I’m going to use from the old Nordic traditions, because werewolves are featured pretty heavily Norse mythology, with Fenrir and Odin’s two companions.  And I thought that the connection would really only make the spell stronger.  I mean, it can’t hurt.”  Stiles blushes a little at how intensely Derek is staring at him as he talks.

 

“And I say _spell_ even though it’s not, like, a traditional spell with an incantation or anything.  I’m just gonna drawn some pictures in the ground and hope real hard.  So, what I did was altered an old runic enchantment that was designed to protect a ship.  The later runes to protect the hearth and home were derived from these, so I figured going back to the source was the best way to dig down to the oldest power.  And _wow_ I’m talking a lot. This is really boring isn’t it?”

 

“No,” Derek says firmly.

 

“Oh, good.” Stiles wipes his suddenly damp palms on his thighs.  “Uhm.  All right, so, let’s…” Stiles takes a few steps away from the house, towards the invisible line where Derek’s property becomes the clearing before it melds into the forest.  He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for, but he knows it when he takes one step too far.  It’s like his spark tugs him back just a fraction.

 

“This is where I’ll start.  I’m going to make a ring of protection around the house.”  Stiles makes an all-encompassing gesture with his hands and Derek nods.

 

“Okay, so this whole thing is designed to keep unwanted visitors away from your property.  Kind of like that Harry Potter spell.  Or a ring of mountain ash against werewolves.”

 

“How will it differentiate between welcome and unwelcome visitors?”  Derek questions.  He’s moved to stand right next to Stiles.

 

“Don’t worry, dude.  I’m not going to lock you out of your house,” Stiles teases.  He feels more at ease than ever, now that he’s come to terms with the way he feels.  It doesn’t matter if Derek doesn’t reciprocate.  He knows where he stands, and that’s good enough.  For now. 

 

“It works by intention,” Stiles continues.  “If someone approaches the house with ill intent towards you or your pack, they’ll be repelled.  I don’t think it will physically hurt them, but it’ll keep them back.  At least that’s the hope.  If this works, I’m going to keep researching and try to come up with a way to really ward the house from attacks.  I can’t do the whole forest, I don’t think, but-”

 

“Stiles.”  Derek’s voice is low and soft, but tinged with an urgency Stiles doesn’t expect.  “You are doing more than enough as is.”

 

Stiles blushes.  He can’t help it.  Derek’s praise makes his stomach twist up happily.  “I’m really not.”

 

“You are,” Derek presses.  Stiles looks over at him and finds that in that moment Derek’s eyes are the same color as the forest.  And he doesn’t miss the way those eyes flicker down to his mouth before coming back up to his own.

 

“Well,” Stiles swallows thickly.  He kind of just wants to launch himself at Derek.  “I just think that you deserve someone looking out for you.”

 

“You’ve always looked out for me,” Derek responds.  “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

 

“Yeah, I _have_ saved your life a couple of times, haven’t I?” Stiles tries to grin cheekily, tries to lighten the mood by miming cutting Derek’s arm off, but the solemn look in Derek’s eyes makes him go still.  Derek is trying to tell him something, Stiles knows, he just isn’t hearing it.  Again.  He really is an idiot, but maybe he’s learning.

 

Stiles clears his throat.  “There will be four runes, one each for the points on a compass.  Meant to cover all things.  I’ll draw them at significant locations on a circle around the house.  It’s all very symbolic.  The circle.  The earth.  Connectivity.  You know.  And if I’ve learned nothing at all these past weeks, it’s that symbols are important.”

 

Stiles swears he hears Derek snort and he grins.

 

“All right, uh.  Here we go.”  Stiles crouches down low to the ground.  He closes his eyes and breathes in and out, finds his spark, burning low and waiting for his call.  He greets it like an old friend.

 

“The first rune.  Bearing north.”  Stiles carefully draws the symbol into the dirt with his finger, just a few simple lines.  He draws his will up from his belly, lets it flow along his arm and to his hand, and down into the soil.  “This is the protection, the shield.  It’s the key point of the rune casting.  The other runes will draw from this one.”

 

“So you better get it right,” Derek murmurs.

  
Stiles grins up at Derek, who is standing close by with his arms across his chest, looking quiet and intense.  “Oh, I will.”

 

Stiles makes sure the lines are just right before he moves clockwise around the property, walking the edge of the circle he’d already mapped out in his mind.  He senses Derek following him, but maintaining a respectful distance.  He’s glad he’s staying close.

 

“This one is, well, it’s a thorn, but inverted.  It stands for the thing we’re guarding against.  Evil.  Malice.  Any big bad that comes a-knocking.  It sits at the east, under the eye of the shield.”  Stiles feels heat gathering in his body as the power he’s trying to harness rises.  He breathes in and tightens his will around the magic.  “Two down,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

 

He continues around the circle until he’s at the western point of the imagined compass, standing opposite the rune he just drew.  “This will be the rune for power.  It’s a beacon, which I find pretty fucking fitting.  And here’s where I made the biggest change to things.  I’m using water as the source of the power and energy, instead of fire.”

 

Derek makes a soft, choked noise.  Stiles glances up at him, worried for a moment.  A muscle in Derek’s jaw is twitching and his whole body looks tense.

 

“Uhm.  It’s a different kind of power,” Stiles continues, choosing his words as best he can.  “Flowing.  Steady.  It’s more associated with healing and renewal, instead of destruction and pain.  But it’s power nonetheless.  It’s more lasting.  I thought that would be-”

 

“Thank you,” Derek interrupts and Stiles swallows.  His heart is beating fast and it has nothing to do with the energy curling in his belly.

 

“You’re welcome.”  Stiles ducks his head and sketches the redesigned rune into the dirt.  The changes make it more difficult; it requires more focus and attention.  It can too easily slip away from him if he’s not careful.  Stiles digs his fingers into the dirt to help anchor himself as he infuses the rune with his will and his intent.  He feels it – like a weird tugging in his gut when the rune accepts the energy – and he exhales.  He can feel the tiredness starting to creep up on him, but he shakes it off.

  
Stiles stands and when he does he sways a little on his feet.  Immediately, Derek’s hand is on his back, holding him steady.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“I’m fine.”  Derek’s eyebrow questions him, but Stiles just smiles.  “Really, I’m good.  I’m going to finish this.  I am.”

 

Derek nods his acquiescence and Stiles steps away from the warmth of Derek’s hand to take his place at the southern point of the compass.

 

He kneels down, knees digging into the soft, bare dirt.  He can’t wait for the grass to grow and the flowers to bloom.

 

“And this is the final one.  It’s for your property.  Your _home_.  It’s the source of your safety.  But beyond that, it’s the thing that’s most important to you.  It’s the thing to be protected by the shield from the evil using the power source.  They work together.  Each strengthens the other.”

 

Stiles chances a look up at Derek and catches those pale eyes staring intently down at him.  Stiles flushes, but he feels himself strengthened by it, by Derek’s belief in him, by his absolute _trust_ in Stiles.  It makes his spark glow brighter.

 

Stiles carves the rune into the dirt with slow, deliberate movements.  He’d practiced them all over and over with paper and pencil and his hand easily remembers the motions. 

 

“Almost done,” he says, looking down at the perfect marking in the soil.  He feels the relief growing.

 

“Now what?”

 

“Now I bind them to each other and to your land to make them part of it.”

 

Stiles rests both hands on the ground and digs his fingers in.  He closes his eyes and searches as far down into himself as he knows how.  The more power and will and intention he can suffuse into the runes the stronger the enchantment will be.  The more he gives of himself to the runes, the tighter he wraps himself around it, the greater the protection they’ll provide.  And that’s what he wants.

 

The heat builds and builds in his body, gathering in his chest and lacing down his arms, but his breath is coming up fast and short.  His feet and legs are growing cold as he pushes and pushes at the enchantment to accept his will the way the individual runes themselves already did.  He has to make them work together, has to bind the arcs of power from north to east and all the around the property to north again, completing the circle.

 

Stiles gasps as a line of power goes errant, the shock twinging down his spine, but he locks his will down and pushes again.  His hands ache with how hard he’s gripping the ground and a headache is forming behind his eyes. He pushes harder, but the binding won’t seal and Stiles is fading.  He can’t fail Derek in this.  He won’t.

 

Suddenly, a heavy, familiar hand rests firmly on his shoulder, grounding him, holding him together.  And that does it.  The etched symbols flare a warm, golden color and a beam encircles the property along the circle Stiles created before the light sinks into the ground and disappears.  Stiles exhales the painful breath he’d been holding.  Derek doesn’t let go of his shoulder and Stiles feels the warmth of it chasing away the cold that had crept up on him.

 

“Is it done?” Derek asks.

 

“Yup.”  Stiles stands up slowly, with the aid of Derek’s hand sliding down to his elbow, gently lifting him.  “You’re safe and sound.”

 

“Thank you,” Derek murmurs, looking him directly in the eye and there is a depth of feeling and sincerity that Stiles has a hard time of accepting.  He so desperately wants to lean in and kiss Derek, to seal the whole thing off with his lips and his tongue and the promise of what that means.  It feels like the moment.  But he can’t.  He doesn’t.  Not even with Derek’s gaze flickering down to his mouth again.

 

“Uhm, before,” Stiles says, to break the moment.  “Peter mentioned that the house had a hearthstone.  Is that a real thing?”

 

“It is.”

 

“Is that something that I can…use?  It would strengthen the spell and anchor it down, if I could attach it to something like that.  I mean – it’s good and solid as is.”  Stiles doesn’t mention that he’s pretty sure the ward was strengthened by Derek touching Stiles when he was setting it, but he’s pretty sure Derek knows it anyway.  “It’d become almost impossible to break as long as the hearthstone remains intact.”

 

Derek is quiet for a long moment.  “Come on.”  He turns towards the house and Stiles follows him.

 

Stiles is a little more than surprised when Derek leads him all the way up to his bedroom on the third floor of the house, although he supposes he shouldn’t be.  When he thinks of a hearthstone he imagines a grand fireplace, but he already knows the house doesn’t have a single one of those.

 

Derek’s bedroom is surprisingly big, with exposed brick and a high ceiling with wooden rafters.  The large bed is set against the back wall, with the windows on the west so the morning sun won’t wake him.  There’s a heavy wooden dresser and a couple of cozy looking chairs.  Half-filled bookshelves stand against a wall and a nightstand holds a clock, a glass of water, and a book.  Stiles grins at the thought of Derek snuggled in bed reading a book.  Maybe in some pajamas.  Or not.  Maybe just soft pants and no shirt, with the covers tucked around his hips and the book resting on his stomach and Stiles really needs to not be thinking about this while he stands in Derek’s bedroom with Derek at his side.

 

“So,” Stiles clears his throat.  “The hearthstone?”

 

Derek nods towards the windows.  Stiles cross the room, steps muffled by the thick rug laid down.  There, set in amongst the brick, is a small piece of granite, worn smooth by age.

 

“Where did it come from?” He asks, knowing that it didn’t come from the old house.

 

Derek steps up next to him, moving as silently as every.  “New York.”  His voice is low and seems to come from a thousand miles away.

 

“From when you and Laura lived there?”

 

Derek nods.  “It was the safest place I knew for a long time.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles doesn’t know much about the years Derek spent with Laura after the fire.  Derek has said a few things about it, here and there, slipping it into conversations.  But only obliquely.  Stiles wants to ask, but only when the time is right.

 

Stiles rest his palm over the stone, which feels oddly warm to the touch, but that could just be him imagining it.

 

He starts to envision the newly laid runes, but stops before the energy begins to rise up in him.  “Uhm, do you think you could, uh…” Stiles trails off, suddenly so horribly embarrassed he almost can’t stand it.

 

“What do you need?”

 

Stiles hates how his heartbeat stutters at the sound of Derek nearly growling the word.  “Will you, er, touch me?”  Stiles can feel his cheeks burning red and his tongue feels ungainly in his mouth.  “Like you did outside?  It just…I don’t mean to – but it helps, with controlling the magic.  And you know, this is you property, it helps if you’re a part of it, at least I think it does, it feels like it does and-”

 

Stiles’ mouth snaps shut as Derek’s hand slides over his, where it’s still resting on the hearthstone.  His palm is warm, skin smooth and rasping over Stiles’ knuckles.  He shivers all the way down to his toes as heat curls and flares sharply in his belly.  It feels nothing and everything like when his spark surges up inside of him.

  
“That’ll work,” Stiles rasps, his voice gone thick and a little ragged.  Derek is standing so close that Stiles can smell the forest on him and the sharper tang of fading soap.  He can feel the heat of Derek’s body and see his pulse fluttering in his throat.  It looks fast, faster than normal, and Stiles swallows.  There’s no way he’s affecting Derek in the least.  Except he is.  He can tell he is.  Derek is breathing a little hard and his pupils are blown so wide his eyes are almost all black.

 

 _Okay then_.

 

Stiles clears his throat and drags his eyes away before he does something stupid.  He forces himself to focus.  He draws the power from his own will and also from the heat and pressure of Derek’s hand on his own.  The hearthstone grows warmer under his palm as he pictures the runes and the circle of protection they’re providing.  He thinks he can see the golden ring pulsing deep underneath the soil.  Stiles gently grabs a hold of that power and coaxes it to anchor to the stone.  It’s a little like forming a dome over the house as he draws energy up from the runes to connect to the granite.

 

But it isn’t sapping his strength the way he thought it would and Stiles thinks that it has everything to do with the fact that Derek’s palm is pressed tight to the back of his hand and that he’s shifted so close to Stiles that their clothing brushes together.  He can feel it acutely everywhere Derek’s arm touches his own.  He thinks he’d go a little weak-kneed if he didn’t feel so empowered by it.  Stiles marvels as how such a simple thing – touch – can have so much power.

 

Stiles knows when the bond between the runes and the hearthstone is set by the way the stone glows the same golden hue before dimming.  Stiles sighs and then laughs.

 

“Well, that was awesome.” He cranes his neck to grin at Derek.  “You’re as protected as I can make you.”

 

And Derek kisses him.  Derek kisses him and Stiles keeps trying to talk because there is no way Derek is kissing him.  Except he is.  There are hands on his face and a body pressed up against his own and Derek is definitely kissing him.  In his bedoom.  Up against a wall.

 

Stiles flails.  Just a little.  He can’t help it.  Hands shocked for something to hold on to, legs automatically spreading for the bulk of Derek’s body.  Stiles parts his lips and accepts Derek’s tongue and tries not to die right then and there.

 

Derek pulls away with a slick sound of Stiles makes a desperate whining sound that he’s not proud of.

 

“Oh no, get back here.”  He snags Derek’s collar and hauls him back in.

 

Derek’s beard is scratchy against his chin and his cheeks, but his lips are soft and Stiles is quickly getting over the shock.  Because Derek is kissing him like he needs him.  Like the air in Stiles’ mouth is his breath and the slick of his tongue is his life.

 

Stiles clings.  There’s no smoother word for it.  He clings with an arm thrown around Derek’s back, gripping at his shirt for purchase as he tries not to collapse to the ground, and he get a hand on the back of Derek’s neck, which makes him growl and kiss Stiles harder and deeper until all Stiles can taste is Derek.

 

“How long have you-” Stiles tries to ask between biting kisses.

 

“Long enough.”  Derek’s voice is a low growl.

 

“But you never-” His lips feel swollen and bruised.

 

“Shut up.” Derek’s thumb strokes across Stiles’ cheekbone with a softness that has Stiles flushing all the way down to his chest.  “I let you have my books,” he murmurs, low and intimate, and it hits Stiles all at once, what it’s all meant.

 

“Oh my god.  That was your way of wooing me.”  He should have seen this sooner, but how could he?  Somewhere out there, Sabina is rolling her eyes at him.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Were you going to leave dead rabbits on my doorsteps next?”  Stiles grins at the exasperated look Derek gives him, tempered by the heat burning in those eyes.

 

“What is it with you and rabbits?”

 

“Oh god.  You’ve been talking to my dad.  He said you were at the station.”

  
Derek’s eyes are dark and serious, despite the slick of Stiles’ spit shining on his lower lip.  “Stiles.”

 

“How old fashioned are you?”

 

Derek doesn’t respond, just surges in and finds Stiles’ open mouth again, kissing him hard and pushing him up against the wall even harder.  The hearthstone is a warm point between his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t mind at all.

  
Stiles groans into the heat of Derek’s mouth and scrabbles at his clothing, getting his fingers under the fabric and finally on the hot, smooth skin of his waist. Derek shudders and bites down on Stiles’ lip with sharp teeth before soothing the hurt with an apologetic swipe of his tongue.

 

“ _Damn_ you,” Stiles gasps when Derek pulls away from his mouth to settle his teeth against his neck.  Stiles tips his head back and does not miss the growl that reverberates throughout the quiet room.

 

“So _that_ part’s true,” he pants, not even trying to hide his wild grin.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“What other weird yet adorable wolfy things do I have to look forward to?”

 

“I am _not_ your next research project.”  Derek kisses him again, lips moving slower this time, easing Stiles’ mouth open for his tongue and Stiles knows he can look forward to many years of being shut up with a kiss.

 

Stiles could crack a joke about studying the map of Derek’s body, but he doesn’t.  He’ll save it for later.  Instead, Stiles tugs at Derek’s shirt, trying to get it up over his head, but he’s not getting any cooperation from Derek.

 

“Off off off,” he urges.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Nope.  Not stopping now.  Never know when you’re going to come to your senses about this and never look at me again.  Shirt off.  Don’t be shy, big guy.  I’ve seen it before.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek presses, voice rich with a different kind of urgency and insistency.  “I _have_ come to my senses about this.  About _you_.”

 

That stops Stiles.

 

 _Oh_.

 

“Oh,” he whispers.  His fingers flex against Derek’s naked waist.  “Yeah.  I mean, me too.  About you.”  Derek blinks slowly and something like wonder passes over his features.

 

“Good.”  Stiles shivers as Derek’s hands slide down his arms before lightly gripping at his wrists.  He leans in for Derek’s lips, but Derek leans away.  Stiles opens his mouth to ask why they’re stopping, but Derek just shakes his head and gently pulls Stiles away from the wall.  And towards his bed.  Stiles almost swallows his tongue.

 

Derek stops at the edge of his bed and lets go of Stiles’ wrist, only to reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it easily over his head.  Stiles chokes on his tongue.

 

“Oh.”  He quickly steps out of his shoes and goes for his own shirt, fingers trembling and heart racing in anticipation.  He feels sweat gathering in the small of his back and his stomach is twisting up hotly.  He doesn’t know what he wants, doesn’t know what he can _ask_ for, but whatever it is, he wants it with Derek.

 

But Derek just shakes his head, smiling softly.

 

“What?” Stiles asks, confused, his shirt pulled halfway up his body.

 

“Come here.”  Derek takes a hold of his wrist again and gently draws him down onto the bed with him.  Stiles goes willingly, heart thudding hard in his chest as he stretches out with Derek.  The sheets are dark and cool and somehow smell of the forest.  They smell like Derek.

 

“But I thought-” Stiles begins to protest, only to be hushed by the press of Derek’s mouth against his own.  His lips move slowly, coaxing Stiles’ mouth open and Stiles just melts into it.  Stiles can’t even describe the taste of his kisses.  Derek pulls him close, tangling their legs together and Stiles wants to twine himself so completely around Derek that he doesn’t know where he begins and Derek ends.

 

He wants this, wants Derek.  Desperately.  He wants them naked and sweating and writhing.  He wants Derek’s hands on his body and his teeth in his skin.  He wants to scratch across Derek’s tattoo and make him growl.  Stiles whines into Derek’s mouth and pushes against his body.  He knows Derek can feel him hard against his hip and he’s not ashamed of it at all.  Derek isn’t unaffected either; Stiles can feel him too.

 

But Derek’s hand clamps down on his slowly rocking hip, stilling him, even as his thumb pushes against the tender line of his groin.  “Stiles,” Derek murmurs into his mouth and he’s kind of in love the way Derek says his name, like it’s more than just a word.

 

“What?”  Stiles peppers kisses along the line of Derek’s jaw and down to his neck.  The scent of him is stronger, richer, and Stiles sucks slow, wet kisses against his pulse point.  Derek rumbles contentedly and Stiles preens, just a little.  He might not know what he’s doing, but he knows what he’s doing with Derek.  But Derek’s sweeps a warm hand up his back and tangles his fingers in his hair, tugging his mouth away.

 

“I _told_ you.  You don’t need to rush this.” Derek’s eyes are soft, even if his pupils are blown wide.  “I’ll be here in the morning.”  He untangles his fingers from Stiles’ hair to cup his jaw and his face with more tenderness than Stiles has ever felt from anyone.  He smiles into Stiles’ eyes and leans in to kiss his mouth again, slow-moving and deep.

 

Stiles shivers down to his curling toes for reasons entirely beyond arousal.

 

“You’re cock-blocking yourself here,” he mutters.  But his body is slowly relaxing, ramping back down from the aching flood of desire.

 

“Not really,” Derek replies, kissing him again, even slower this time.  It’s deep and wet and Stiles arches into even as his muscles unwind and he sinks against the solid weight of Derek’s body.  His eyes are growing heavy and his breathing slows.  He doesn’t want to sleep, but he knows he will.  The runes cost him more energy than he truly knows, but Derek sense it.

 

“But the morning,” Stiles prompts.  He shifts lazily, finding the spaces in the nooks and curves of Derek’s body to fit his own.  Derek pulls him in closer and licks across his lower lip.  “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

 

Derek doesn’t say anything, just kisses him again and again, slow and easy and smiling into it.  Moonlight is beginning to flood the room, coming through the big bay windows, and Stiles rests his hand on Derek’s chest, over his heart.  He can feel it beating, strong and steady under his palm, and Stiles lets gentle rhythm of it take him down into sleep.

 

In the morning, he will wake with Derek still wrapped all around him.  He will take the tarot deck that’s still wedged somewhat uncomfortably in his pocket out and set it on Derek’s nightstand (and he will complain about them sleeping in their jeans and how it’s never going to happen again and Derek will roll his eyes).  And Stiles will shuffle the cards one last time.  And he will flip the top card over one last time and place it face up next to the deck.

 

And he will get out of bed without looking at the card. 

 

Because he has Derek climbing out of bed with him and kissing the back of his neck, nosing through his sleep-mussed hair while his hand slides across Stiles’ stomach, and he doesn’t need to know what a deck of cards has to say anymore.  He has something more than fate at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> I completely understand my limitations with the use of a tarot cards in a fic. I have a small amount of knowledge on the subject, but in no way am I anything approaching an expert on them. I used the Rider-Waite deck for general iconography and meaning.
> 
> Any mistakes or misuse of the cards is due to either my lack of knowledge, or because I needed something to happen as a plot device. I in no way intend to disrespect anyone with true understanding of tarot cards.


End file.
